


|| Breathe You In ||

by Nervawkward, xxVoodoo



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, BAMF Thranduil, Drama, Drama Llama, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Exile, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Heartbreak, Pity Sex, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Requited Love, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Rough Sex, Secrets, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, road to redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nervawkward/pseuds/Nervawkward, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxVoodoo/pseuds/xxVoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unlikely allies, a King and Queen dance through wrath and ruin, destroying the filth that has risen from the pits of hell. Within the ashes of Dale, Thranduil finds himself at the mercy of this marvelous heathen from the South, after a few well placed arrows save his hide from an ambush. Gratitude is unable to be given, when the woman thrusts herself between a blade meant for him, suffering a grave wound in order to preserve his life. Indebted to such courage, a heart that has thought could feel no more, has sprung to life as mercy flows through his veins. In her presence, he has found salvation, in more ways than he can fathom, and her life is spared by his hand. Thranduil takes this woman to Mirkwood, in order to pay off his debt.</p><p>As one is reminded of all emotions once lost, another is slowly losing the will to feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Underneath This Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I hold Tolkien's elves to a different standard and reality -- please bare that in mind while reading. My elves within his universe are not under the same strict laws. 
> 
> They feel passion, they are not invisible, and they suffer just like the rest of them.
> 
> Nervawkward -- thank you for editing my horrendous typos.
> 
> I am the Queen of typos.
> 
> Chapters will be updated as they're edited

**S** eering -- the pain almost made her belt out in agony, but she silenced those cries with a few misplaced whimpers and erratic breathing. Pawing, she had gripped the fine materials below her, trying to get focus on her surroundings; finally her vision had began to work, after much begging, and this place was not of her own. Morivanië tried to lift herself from the sheets, but the ache in her side forced her to be still, only allowing herself to be propped upon her elbows. Her fingers touched the dampness upon her gut, grimacing as she rolled the wet crimson between her fingers. She held breath, her heart still sang, and she was alive when she had thought the great halls of Valinor were calling her.

 

Part of her prayed that Mandos would have met her in the darkness, kissed her crown, and held her hand as they walked through the abyss. Through the deep slumber, she saw images of her long lost beloved, waiting upon the undying shores, arms outstretched for her arrival. Such bitter dreams, she thought to herself, pulling her lower half so she could rest her spine against the hardened head rest. Hues of green had closed, letting her head fall back, huffing. She could hear words, but could not make them out; they were far too muffled. It wasn’t until the pair speaking came close, looming in the doorway, she could hear one call out: “Fetch the maester! She has awoken.”

 

And awoken she had, like a phoenix crawling from the ashes with mangled flesh, putrid in many ways before it could regain its regal persona. It was the beckoning from this hell that caused the woman to move, furthering ruining the flesh at her hip; each morning had been the same and a routine she had wished to fall out of. Each morn the flowing healer would seek to the care of this wound, would assure her mercy, would guide her back within the slumber that plagued her mind with such nightmares, all gripping upon her innards until she awoke once more; she could not endure such pleasantries of elvish command, for her people had abandoned her long ago, and she was not one for this world. To just move from this place, to beg her legs to work, the darkened creature attempted to rise upon jellied legs, hands bracing her fall upon the nightstand. Maidens flocked to her aid, but she would not hear any of their words, cursing them to stay back; Morivanië knew she worked all of failing strength, but she would not allow her descent to be in vain.

 

Ivory toyed with dry lips, grimacing as the searing ripped through her core, but she would not cease. To the armoire she staggered to, reached to grip upon its handles. The pair gawked at the wild creature from the sea of Rhûn, fabled to be as dark as the foul orcs themselves; part of them feared to help the woman as she slinked a robe across her naked frame, watching the struggle and small cries of agony singing from her lips. The smaller gnawed upon her knuckle as anxiety closed her throat, watching as she collided into the desk, and she closed her eyes as she winced.

 

“I cannot bare this,” she admitted, withdrawing from the room.

 

“Where are you going?” the other hissed quietly, removing herself from the chambers to seclude their meeting. “You cannot leave me here.”

 

“I am seeking out our Lord!”

 

Lips parted, dumbfounded at her partner. “Y-you mustn’t,” she pleaded, gripping the hands of the paled creature, “He shan’t be pleased… Padeth, I beg you, please..”

 

“No,” the blonde stole her hands from the fire-kissed maiden, features writhing, disturbed by the scene within the chambers. The clatter as an object had collided, smashing against the ground, had been solidification of her actions. Padeth escaped, rushing along the corridor. Another shattering object caused the ginger-haired lass to return, rushing to grip the dark woman before she had collided against the ground as well.

 

“My lady!” Gwondes begged, barely able to hold on as she bucked, trying to free herself from the child’s hold. Morivanië hissed, attempting to gain her freedom back, but the moisture nagging at her hip quickly reminded herself of the gravity of her stubbornness; she submitted, allowing the girl to move her toward the destination she desperately sought -- the balcony. “You have agitated the wound, lady Morivanië. Allow me to-”

 

“Leave it,” she waved her off, placing a hand gingerly against the moistened silk adorn her hip, finding the few free moments to catch her breath, easing back into the chair. Curled ebony strands quickly were removed from her paled features, watching the girl fuss over her well being, a kindness that had been unnecessary in her own book, but something she would lest forget. “Gwondes, enough… please. Allow me some dignity,” she half-begged until the girl had finally dipped her head, rising from her knees. “Just,” she huffed, icy hues licked over her saddened stance, “Bring me some wine… If you will not leave my side.”

 

Her words enlightened the young soul, taking her command with great stride. Plucking the silver goblet from the stand the woman had nearly toppled over, she lifted the jug to fill its contents to the brim, and hastily returning to the mistress she had tended to for the fortnight she had been within these halls. The gratitude she sought was within those storm-tossed hues, as the broken being locked within her own, taking the cup from her grip.

 

How sweet and savory the liquid had been, greedily sucking the contents down; she wished to be numb, to not feel the pain chewing at her flesh. She exhaled loudly, keeping the lip close to her mouth, before vanquishing the contents of the goblet and holding it out for it to be refreshed.

 

Every hair stood on end, goose pimpling every ounce of flesh; digits rolled over the curvature of her wingspan, stopping at the back of her neck with a thumb causally kneading against her skin in a sincere and reassuring grip. Caught -- she knew the method of her madness would be her undoing, but she was a free spirit like the rolling wind, untameable and wild; within his grace, it had been a different course that she was weary. “You’ve struck fear within their tender hearts,” the voice purred from behind her. She did not waver nor would she show her cards, rising her chin ever-so slightly, as a Queen should. Morivanië drew upon the liquid’s strength once more, feeling the heat of the firewater roll in her belly. It was welcomed, soothing, causing her face to tingle under it’s effects. “And the destruction of your quarters… why do you force such afflictions upon yourself?”

 

“I grow tiresome of those sheets,” she voiced, finally allowing those hues to meet his own; Thranduil stood before her in darkened silks, accented with crimson. More so, she acknowledged his regal, stoic features -- handsome and well crafted, though it was a mask,  hiding much more below the surface. He moved with pristine fluidity, falling before her as the child had done.

 

“At the cost of flesh undone and ruined robes,” a dry jest. Floating silver strands cascaded from his shoulders as his hand moved below the silks, resting his hand upon the angry wound. He felt the shiver, but she remained with a strong jaw, unable to remove her steely stare from his own. He gripped, watching her flinch, but a bitter reminder of her condition. He had not asked for this, nor had she, but he admired her for doing what his own men would not easily do. It was he who surrendered, lowering his gaze and parting his lips, pushing all that was within him to the palm that rested against the sobbing laceration; the heat of his touch mended what had been broken, easing the pain she felt, and offering her mercy. “You cannot afford such recoil if you seek a swift recovery.”

 

“I fear it will not be so,” a smirk adorned her lips, born of the frustration within her gut. She found he lingered before her for too long, but she would not voice her concerns. The Elvenking had been the only constant within these days, and his company had been cherished, as much as she was coherent, that was. Fingers reached forth, gripping his forearm, and he removed his hand from under the silks.

 

“Ah,” he nodded, separating himself from her, and seating beside the female in the chair brought by a blushing handmaiden. “Your men have gathered and departed. I  have offered shelter until they have fully recovered and yet, you have sent them away.”

 

“Winter is upon us. I cannot afford what remains of my best, here. I will join them when my wounds have healed. I am grateful for your kindness, Thranduil. I do not know how I can repay you…”

 

“It is not you that is within my debt, quite the opposite. I did not ask for you to sacrifice yourself, but yet, without question you stepped within the enemy’s path. I cannot say my own men would have done the same. It is I, Lady Morivanië, that is in your debt. Do not think you owe me anything.”

 

Unable to find the words, the elf remained silent, thumbs running along the hem of the goblet, before she slowly sipped on the finery within the cup. Thranduil drew upon the small insecurities of this conversation, watching as she got lost within herself. A thick brow furrowed slightly, reaching for his own glass and sipping upon the contents. “Winter is no time for travel. I humbly ask that you stay within these halls until you are able. I will send an escort along once you are ready to depart, to ensure your safe arrival back within your kingdom.”

 

“You do not have to,” she protested, shifting within her seat, sneering at the jolt her moving caused. There was a certain pity within those cold eyes that watched her squirm, finding it momentarily before he turned his gaze toward the fleeting sunlight. “I cannot express the pain in my chest, knowing that they ride for home… and I remain. I will admit, it has been far too long since I have been behind elvish walls. I believe I may miss such luxury.”

 

"You do not have to miss all of this." Gesturing to the room around her, to the finery of his people’s craft, and the luxurious room behind them. "You are more than welcome to stay, as long as you like. I fear I have not had such company as yours for a long, long time. It would surely be missed.” Thranduil felt the knot form subtly within his throat, attempting to swallow it and remain poised. He would not admit, but he did not wish for the she-elf to leave these halls, for she awoken something within him upon the battlements. On the days she had been coherent, he was astounded by such charm, wit, and wisdom -- attributes others had hidden from him out of fear, for he was their king. She did not fear him, but combated him, and unrelentless with her opinions. She was radiant, a darker beauty than the pale haired woman that once belonged to his soul, but Morivanië rivaled his late wife in a way he could not imagine; she had gotten under his skin.  

 

“I assure you, I shall remain until spring. I am no fool -- a long journey should not be taken when the snow comes, and I am sure I shall not be ready in time. I fear you must endure me a while longer.”

 

The smallest tugging upon the corners of his mouth were taken in by the defeated beauty within the throne -- she knew she had met his demands, and she would not say she hadn’t been too sore on the decision.

 

“My lord,” the iron plated guard emerged from the chambers and onto the balcony, dipping his head. “You have been summoned and are needed.” The Elvenking dipped his crown, reaching to finish his glass before rising.

 

“I shall return tomorrow, if it pleases you?” he inquired, holding his chin high as to not be let down. Her head dipped, acknowledging his request.

 

“Until tomorrow,” she breathed, watching the glowing figure remove himself from her lair. Eyes turned toward the setting sun, kissing atop Erebor with the first glimpse of darkness, and cascading the stars within the sky. Morivanië slipped a hand below the silken robe, touching the space of flesh that had been seeping from her own misdoings; it was closed and sore, nowhere close to a full recovery. Fingers lifted it away from the grime that stuck to her side, examining it. Had only she had the strength, she would have been able to heal it enough and carry on; he was evening the playing field, bringing her back down upon his level until they were even.

 

“Do you w-wish,” Gwondes stepped forward, face kissed red from the passing king. She swallowed, drawing a deepened breath to collect herself. “Do you wish to try a bath, Lady Morivanië? The King insists your flesh is healed enough for it.” Soft was the smile that took her lips, nodding as she accepted the help. This was the start, she mentally noted, that her body was to be her’s again.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

  **x**

 


	2. Just the Notion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CUE FLASHBACKS AND STUFF!

_“ **W** e are fortunate the Kine survived the hissing wastes. For sure, I believed we would have lost them in the heat and swallowed by the Brown Lands,” the mortal spoke, fingers around the leathers of his reins, leading the ebony mare along the roaring shores. “I still cannot believe the stock we were given for two cows and a bull! I can only give compliments to you, Lady Morivanië -- I do not know how you were able to negotiate such terms.”_

_“How long will you be kissing my posterior?” dry, her tone, bobbing to and fro underneath the tawny steed as it pranced within the shoreline. “Lest you forget the effort it took to acquire such beasts. We almost lost three good men to the Easterlings, let alone the few souls wounded. And the time endured within the Noman-lands? Three cows we lost along the way… This is not bounty for our efforts.” Quickly the human held his tongue, walking quietly beside the towering stallion as they strode at the forefront of the small company. “The Orcs grow ripe. I do not see us trading with Edoras in the near future. We must turn back to the Iron Hills.” Morivanië did not know why she spoke so freely with the dark haired human, but in the days passing, his worth had been proven time and time again. Pity took her stare momentarily watching as he moped alongside his mare, but listened intently as she had spoken, as if her word had been golden flowing from the mountains of Erebor. A sigh passed through her lips, slowing the beast to a halt; eyes counted the heads of those who followed, as well as horses acquired from the horse-lords, and the wagons that hauled what supplies had survived the long journey._

_Sauntering ivory caught the wind, swooping, and dodging as if it were a petal falling from the fruit bearing trees of Taur Romen -- home. Narrowed, beryl hues sought to make sense of what floated in the skies, and with an elven stare, she honed in upon the carrier headed North toward their destination. The bow had been pried over the darkened crown, arrow quickly joining at the string. Heels dug into the sides of the hefty mount, forcing it forth after the fluttering target within the morning sky. Baffled, the human mounted the adumbral mare, setting after his Queen in hot pursuit that only her eyes alone, could see. “Morivanië!” he called out, disregarding titles and hierarchy, urging his nag to burn what strength had been reserved, for she too, was just as tired as the rest of the riders. His stare hot, watching the woman pull until the cable quivered under the tension; breath held as the target had been locked upon, only releasing once all four hooves had left the ground and offered her stability. Feathers erupted, raining down upon the beach, and body thudding within the sands. The elf dismounted whilst the beast slowed and hurried her pace toward the still creature. She lifted the base of the arrow, only to toss it back upon the ground once the message had been removed from the bird’s leg._

_Curiosity quickly turned blank, like a cat bored after playing with it’s kill; Morivanië examined the seal kissed upon the small parchment, quickly disregarding it upon the sands with the deceased messenger. From the saddle he withdrew as she mounted and whipped the horse’s head toward the wood that lay North from their position. Hurriedly he worked to dust the parchment off, breaking the seal from Lothlórien (unbeknownst to him, however); despite darkened tints mulling over the words, they had been foreign, and the message promptly tucked within his tunic before returning to the wayward horde that longed for home._

_Towering trunks offered shade from the heat, as the sun rose to midday, and it was home that had been found; Morivanië allowed her eyes to close, leaning her head back to relish the cool breeze that healed her sun kissed skin that the Brown Lands had bestowed upon her and the rest. Rekindling with these woods had brought a portion of her soul back, that answered a distant calling, and allowed her to breath again; being without this stronghold she worked vigorously to build, it nearly robbed her of all that she was. There was no place within Middle Earth for her except upon this small plot that had been molded for her and those whom were just as lost as she. The forest path made her heart skip and sing, until they passed through the gates, and were welcomed with cries from the guard mounted upon the walls. Morivanië slipped from the back of the noble stead, allowing a lesser to pull the creature away. She moved amongst those whom placed such trust within her, greeting those of different class and creed, of different stories and legends -- elves, dwarves, and men alike were those she called kin._

_“My lady,” the Sindar lowered his head in respect, though a smile took hold at the sight of the mounts flooding through the gates -- a sight that did not go unnoticed. The light bounced within his stare, softening the hardness that had shrouded their leader. “We shall thrive well this winter,” his tone uplifting, gazing upon the dark haired woman._

_“Have the horses watered and fed -- they deserve much needed rest. We have been given seed for harvest and steel. I trust I can leave these tasks with you, Lalvon?”_

_“Of course, Melda tári. You needn’t worry. I trust my lady will be within her chambers?”_

_“It has been a extensive trek. I long for my bed.”_

_“Losto vae, Hiril vuin,” golden crown lowered once more, quickly joining those whom divvied out the bounty from the West._

_Each creek of the boards was a familiar song that brought such joy as she ascended into the treetops; elven ingenuity gave the diverse clan safeguard from what dwelled across the forest floor. The sight of the old door made her beam and her fingers couldn’t grasp the knob of the door quickly enough, nor turn it to expose her what small space she deemed her own. Although sanctity and peace was what she sought, it was not what she had gotten; tanned fingers pulled her from the threshold to face the familiar. “Talro?” half-questioned until disdain caught her tongue, removing her arm from his grip. “What is the meaning of-” her words trailed, eyes affixed upon the vellum locked within his grip._

_“I ask for your forgiveness,” he begged, lowering dark hues, “I cannot read your tongue, but I feel it holds great importance. I urge you to set aside your tenacious pride.”_

_She snatched the article, scanning the words swiftly; beautiful features had changed quickly, humbling  Hues lifted, looking into his own, before lowering and removing herself from his presence. Talro stood, mouth parting to question, but it was evident -- she had wanted to avoid the words and now, she wanted to avoid the people. Morivanië clambered into her quarters, and barring the door shut._

_♦♦♦_

_“Melda tári!” urgency rang in the elf’s tone, fist thumping against the door. Slumber ridden, she stirred and sea green hues opened. A hand ran through ebony strands, slowly removing herself from the cot, and pulling the bits of cloth around her frame. The door creaked, causing her stare to squint with the morning’s rays forcing temporary blindness; they adjusted, licking over the blonde elf’s features, paled and astonished. His unease bore down upon her, brows furrowing in question as she stepped forth rising her chin._

_“What troubles you?”_

_“Elves had rode in from the North… they-”_

_“Speak!” she barked, heart pounding loudly within her ears as anxiety gripped her. Lalvon winced, but recollected himself with a hefty breath._

_“Galadhrim… they are Galadhrim. They come with the Lady of Light…”_

_The gravity of his words had paled her features and withdrawing within her quarters. He stood speechless, listening as she rummaged through her den. And when the Queen emerged from her hollow, she stood as regal as the day she assumed this position as keeper to this clan. Fur pauldrons bounced as she moved with ferocity, mail and leather binding her frame, displaying the savage she had become. “Where have they been stationed?”_

_“They remain outside of the gates,” he gestured as they stopped upon the ramparts, heaving another heavy breath. “I did not allow them to enter, even when they insisted -- I knew it would be against your wishes.”_

_“Agoreg vae, Lalvon. I must do this alone, however… Have the guard be at the ready, although they shan’t do anything crass whilst they remain in our territory.”_

_“Morivanië… You do not need to do this alone. Allow me-”_

_“No. A generous and sincere offer, but it cannot be that way…” her words trailed off, sad smile finally diminishing as she descended toward the gates. Her innards twisted, jaw clenching tightly moments before she gestured for the gates to rise. All watched with bated breath as their queen took to the path and from prying eyes._

_The beaten path ended with the glistening ivory being standing at its center, hands clasped at her center, chin rising with a faint admiration, laced with antipathy. Galadriel examined the false queen, strapped within animal skin and metal, but she stood just as firm and regal as she. Morivanië kept her distance, arms crossing as she addressed her._

_“You do not hold ground here, yet you have come to occupy it.”_

_“Lay down your malice, Morivanië… I would not intrude upon your home if a great urgency was not nipping at our necks.”_

_“Then why are you here, Galadriel? Enlight me.”_

_She sought to reconcile and close the gap between them, but halted at the darkened woman’s narrowed stare. Galadriel remained where she stood, heaving a heavy sigh as she lowered her crown in a sign of submission, only to appease the riled beast before her. “The lands grow dark, and I fear this vast darkness will swallow all of Middle Earth. You have bore witness first hand, to the darkness of the Noman-lands. A perilous darkness looms to the North, and it will begin to fester and spread… We need to stand united -- he has risen within the pits of Dol Guldur... Morivanië, I beg your forgiveness and I ask for your aid.”_

_“No,” she was blunt, turning to retreat._

_“Your exile,” she called out, causing the woman to halt. “It shall be lifted… You can return, Morivanië. Be amongst your people… I ask for your help in ridding the lands of this foul intent.”_

_“...and my daughter?” she turned, marching toward the White Lady, closing the proximity between them to a dangerous stand still._

_“Returned,” she rose to meet her gaze. “I ask you ride North with the dwarves of the Iron Hills. Deliver a message to Thranduil… I fear my voice will not reach his ears, nor that of Mithrandir. Coming from an ally of long ago, perhaps he shall be swayed.”_

_Morivanië’s features creased, brows twisting in question. “Ride with the dwarves of the Iron Hills?”_

  
_“They are within your stronghold as we speak… Just rode in moments after you have left the safety of your fort.”_

_“And,” Morivanië paused, unable to shake the look upon her face, “What message do I give the King of the Greenwood?”_

_Galadriel reached, taking her hands within her own and gripping them. “To turn his armies. Thorin Oakenshield seeks to reclaim Erebor, as his ancestral rite. Darker forces seek to claim it for themselves, and they will come once the dragon has been slain. You,” she tightened her grip, “You must warn them. A great battle is to take place… It will only be the beginning. Now, I must leave you. Hurry, there is not much time left.”_

_Both matriarchs backed from one another, taking in each other's presence, then turning to depart. The weight upon her shoulders was not carried with ease; the pit in her gut continued to boil, claw at her insides. No time would allow her to process such afflictions, for voices around her cluttered her thoughts._

_“My lady,” Talro met her at the gates, walking beside her fastened pace, “Lord Dáin has just arrived and wishes to seek council with you immediately.”_

_“How coincidental,” a snide snarl hissed from her lips, rising her crown to meet the gruff ginger. A brief lowering of her head greeted the dwarf, offering the best smile she could muster. “Dáin, what a marvelous and unexpected visit. I take it your ride was pleasant?”_

_“Mori dear,” he reached to grip her forearm, shaking the appendage with a chuckle. “Aye, th’ ride wasn’t s’bad. Mori, ‘fraid I must be cashin’ in tha’ favor a wee bit early. I’ve come t’ collect for th’ harvest we gave ya last fall. It seems a bit ‘o trouble is headin’ our way. M’ cousin-”_

_“Thorin?”_

_He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “Aye… tha’ be the one. He seeks t’ reclaim Erebor, an’ I fear it won’t be so easy. I need a few of those Kine y’been wranglin’ from the Easterlings.”_

_“I’m afraid you are a little too late. What we were able to herd have been traded with the Horse Lords. The sea is wild, and we have not been faring well. However, I can gather up what we can spare and my men. If you fear the mountain won’t be taken so easily, at least accept my help. You’ve lost a heavy number from sickness this year..”_

_“This is a dwarven matter, lass. I can’t say I’m not flattered y’ offer up yer services an’ all, but--”_

_“Dwarves are among these people. Give them this opportunity.”_

_The dwarf shifted, belting out a heavy sigh. “Aye… F-fine, fine. I can’t be robbin’ my kin of glory. The rest of yer lot best hold back, am I clear?”_

_She nodded._

_“An’... m’boy? How-”_

_“A fine soldier. I have taken great lengths to ensure his safety. You have shown me and my people a great kindness and without your aid, we would have perished… I will rally what men I can, gather supplies, and we leave at dawn? Until then, please, have your men rest and allow my people to feed you.”_

_Morivanië reached and pulled the fur closer to her chest, increasing the speed of her stride -- her voice carrying out amongst those willing to listen, listing off tasks and commands to ensure their readiness. The human and the elf had been quick to bring themselves to her side._

_“Talro, oversee the preparations of food and what supplies we can spare. We cannot afford to leave our people to struggle in our absence. Lalvon, I need you to assemble a guard to remain behind, including yourself.” His lips parted in protest, snapping shut as she continued. “I need my best to remain, to fend of the nomads. They will grow desperate and seek to seize this opportunity while we are gone. Keep these people safe.”_

_“What did she have to say?” he inquired, gripping her arm to pause her movements._

_“She came with a warning… if we do not heed her words, a grave darkness will eat away at us all.”_

_“And where will it take you?”_

_“To war… The orcs seek to claim Erebor. If they are not stopped, they will spread like wildfire,” her eyes caught his, expressing the austerity of the circumstances they were left to deal with. “Prepare our people… I will return.”_

_“Gwestol?” his troubled voice wavered within his throat._

_“Av-’osto, Lalvon. Boei’waen… I seek atonement. What was taken will be returned to me.”_

_“Galu. No vain i arad. Na lû e-govaned 'wîn, Melda tári.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Elvish is pulled from:  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html  
> http://www.realelvish.net/
> 
> Melda tári - My Queen  
> Losto vae, Hiril vuin - Sleep well, My lady  
> Agoreg vae - You did well  
> Gwestol? - Do you promise?  
> Av-’osto - Do not be afraid  
> Boei’waen - It is necessary  
> Galu - Good luck/a blessing.  
> No vain i arad - May the day be fair  
> Na lû e-govaned 'wîn - Until we meet again
> 
>  
> 
> Galadhrim -- for those who don't know, those are specifically the elves that live within Lothlórien.
> 
> And to clear any confusion, which I will divulge at a later time --  
> Morivanië's people are a mixture of races, acquired from different travels, different circumstances have brought them together. The majority are humans, most likely Easternlings that joined her after she established herself in Rhûn. 
> 
> She does also have Dain's youngest son in her troop. I haven't quite decided what to do with that, or just have it linger. Until I decide...


	3. Over My Head

_**R** olling hills of lush green withered with the oncoming winter; Durin’s day had passed, but there was little to celebrate. Those strong enough to carry the weight of their steel skins endured the march across the rolling plains. Sunlight gleamed off each small body that trotted on foot or by boar, each gnarled and ready to plunge blades into opposing forces. Even as the war torn elf sat upon her buck skinned stallion, the impending calamity punched her gut and the words of the Lady of Lothlórien played within her head. Behind the horde of dwarves they followed, her own men bored upon their mounts as they were lead blindly toward the wastelands the dragon had raped all life from, but none had been prepared for the sight they beheld. The sun shone brightly that morning. Morivanië gripped the reins roughly, palms sweating in leather gloves; anxiety gripped her throat, trying to collect what she could muster before the onslaught they were sent into. Talro did infact take note of her clenched jaw and distant demeanor, but did not pull the lady from the swallowing waters of her mind -- he knew it was unwise for sentiment before this day. The pit of his own gut rolled as they rose upon the hill and watched the flanks of dwarven men disappear over its horizon._

_The cold air caught her lungs, exhaling verbally at the sight of the ruined, smoking city upon the waters in the distance, the droves of golden plated elves turning attentions toward their war party. The stallion ceased to move under his master’s commands, as well as the men that followed her to this moment. From the corner of her eye she caught the black mare, rising to meet the human’s stare, and drawing a deepened breath. “Are you ready?” he asked her, moving the nag closer toward her. “We don’t have to-”_

_“We do. I do… If you do not wish to follow me, you can take the others and go back to Taur Romen. I shan’t judge--”_

  
_“Mori…” words softening and fingers moving to clasp the hilt of his sword, “We have followed you into the darkness before. We are by your side until we are no more. We ride with you until the Dying Shores welcome us, and even then, we shall wait for your arrival to do it once more.” Her head fell, assurance of his words warming every inch of her flesh, and again she exhaled with a faint smile taking hold. “We will not abandon you, my Queen.”_

_Rolls of gold turned upon elvish command, and hues of sea green caught the hart’s antlers rising from the waves that turned; Morivanië had been pleased she did not have to search for this Elvenking, almost forgetting the arrogance of her kin. “Let us go,” she ushered, knowing her time had come. Descending upon the rocky hill, they veered away from the clanking members of their alliance. Dáin sat proudly upon his prized pig, rising upon its back at the helm of his legion. Upon his command they halted, and he moved the beast forward._

_“Good mornin’! How are we all?” he called out, voicing ringing coyly, “I have a wee proposition, if ye wouldn’t mind givin’ me a few moments of yer time… Would’ja consider just… SODDIN’ OFF!? ALL OF YE, RIGHT NOW!”_

_“Come now, Lord Dáin!” the tall wizard stepped between men and elves, exposing himself upon the battlements. Morivanië’s eyes took toward the greyed figure, moving her horse further down the slope, gesturing for her men to stay back with the dwarves._

_“Gandalf the Grey! Tell this rabble t’ leave or I’ll water th’ ground with their blood!”_

_“There is no need for war between Dwarves, Men, and Elves,” he called out. All the more time they had spoken, was more time for the Heathen of Rhûn to inch herself closer. “A legion of Orcs march on the Mountain! Stand your army down!”_

_“I will not stand down before any elf! Not least this faithless Woodland Sprite! He wishes nothin’ but ill upon my people! If he chooses t’ stand between me an’ my kin, I’ll split his pretty head open! See if he’s smirkin’ then!”_

_“He’s clearly mad!” the Elf King called out, smirking upon his horned beast, “Like his cousin!”_

_The stallion caught the eyes of the dwarven lord, mouth twisting as he gritted his teeth. “I told yer lot t’ stay out of me way!” he called out to her, witnessing her joining amongst the ranks of elves. Blades met the stallion’s throat, keeping the rebel from penetrating their ranks. Upon his hart, he drew upon the figure, a smirk taking his prideful gleam. “Morivanië! You deceitful wench! Ye’ soddin’ elves all deserve t’ rot in th’ ground! After all I’ve done fer ye--”_

_“That is not a name I have heard in quite some time,” the King’s voiced drowned the noise the furious little lord had made, but his attempt to catch her attention failed._

_“Hold your tongue, Dáin of Iron Hill,” she snapped, whipping the stallion to face the pig-headed git. “Your useless rants only dig you further into the grave. My business was at your expense, and for that, I offer my sincerest apologies. My men still stand with you -- I suggest you cease your slander.” Lips pursed, finally allowing her stare to be casted upon the shimmering being amongst the sea of elves. “It indeed has been quite a long time… I fear we have no time to indulge in such pleasantries. I come bearing a message from the West -- turn your army and help fight vanquish the filth, Thranduil. Days of old are upon us.”_

_“Days of old?” he scoffed, eyes widening lightly to intimidate. “It is not my concern.”_

_“Until they ravage your wood, and then your people. Mithrandir’s words hold an immense truth. I have seen the evils first hand, I beg for you not to be so daft.”_

_Rumbles of the mountainside tore through the earth, quaking it beneath their feet. The dwarves took their leave, bolting toward the forces that poured from the mountain. Those loyal to her did not move, eyes meeting the King’s as they continued to burn into her own. “The Hordes of Hell are upon us!” They heard them cry, but still, they had not broken at the stares that had been so fierce._

_“Thranduil!” the wizard moved quickly in between the elves, reaching his side, “This is madness!” It was then he broken his gaze, lips parting as the elf took a few moments to himself, weighing his options._

_“They will be slaughtered,” she barked, pulling the reins hard as she moved her mount from his men. “If you shall not fight alongside them, I will.” The woman urged the horse to move with haste, whistling loudly, and those few that joined her, followed in the trail of dust toward the Orc armies._

_“Dago i goth!” the king finally called out, pulling hard upon the reins, and pushing his armies forward after them. Gold swept through their ranks, and the ragtag group bore witness to the elves sprinting atop the heads of dwarves, falling into battle. Sweeping atop their allies, the horses launched over dwarves and blindly upon the orcs. Steel flashed in the high sun, swinging into flesh and bone, severing all that collided._

_The queen launched from her steed, commanding it to leave. Through the blazing orcs with weapons held high, she rolled her blades through, stepping with precision so as to not succumb as the poor saps around her. The distance held the king atop his faithful beast, swinging his blades and sending heads into the sky -- it had almost been like the days of old, where the pair danced upon the same battlefield against Sauron’s forces. And reminiscing diminished quickly as the charge of the large creature came toward her; Morivanië met it’s match with her own hellish cry, plunging the blade through bone, listening to the breastplate snap wickedly, and the beast gurgle and fall. Her boot was needed to brace against it’s hide, pulling the blade from it’s chest. Every fiber of her core pimpled at the blast of the war horns, turning her attentions toward the tower upon the Ravenhill; Orcish banners shifted, and Gandalf’s cries rippled through the forces. With bewildered eyes, she looked upon the mountainside, lined with goliath beast with catapultes upon their spines, sending boulders to the walls of the city. “He is trying to cut us off,” he called out, and her ears had heard him. “To the city! Quickly!”_

_“Morivanië!” Talro called out, making his way toward her. “We must retreat!”_

_“To the city,” she commanded, searching the horizon for her mount. “Get to the city, Talro. Get whomever stands into Dale!” The woman took off, letting her legs guide her, move to a beat to evade swinging blades. Hooves dug into the earth until the their beat was upon her, and the King stood proudly, gazing down upon her._

_“Boe ammen gawd! Tolo enni, Morivanië!” he reached down from the horned mount, gripping her arm as he pulled her upon it’s back. She needed no guidance -- her grip tore around his armored middle to brace as he beckoned it to tear off. Pounding upon the brickwork of the bridge, she leaned to the side to allow her blade to sing, colliding with forces. The buck lowered its crown, scooping up victims, and it was Thranduil who ended their lives, severing heads from shoulders. Arrows ripped through the sky, sinking into the hide of the hart; they felt the beast give way, Thranduil removing his legs from the stirrups, bracing for its demise. He rolled gracefully upon the ash covered ground, Morivanië landing upon her feet, sending shivers and pain from the impact. They had been tossed to the wolves, surrounded by the towering Orcs. A breath drawn, removing the ebony strands from her eyes, gripping the hilts of the blades in her hands._

_They clashed upon metal, grunted as they pushed back what they could. Thranduil moved to take on what she was unable, and she to cover his back, driving off the creatures. Flashes of gold came as his reinforcements had swelled the small clearing, destroying what they had not. It was once they gazed upon the motionless bodies, that the pair could catch their breath. “Ni ‘lassui,” he huffed, looking upon the men that came to their aide, counting heads of his kin to see what remained. The woman sought to catch the air back into her lungs, letting her eyes scan the area; black gripped upon the battlements, hauling frames onto the ledge. No hesitation had been given, pulling the bow over her head, and colliding with a guard of Mirkwood, plucking an arrow from his quiver. It sang within the air, hitting the mark within its gut, sending it down to lay at their feet. Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly, allowing his storm tossed hues to look upon the woman that saved his soul -- if the being had succeeded to launch itself down upon them, that Dáin’s wishes of splitting Thranduil’s skull open, would have been true. The king lowered his head momentarily, ushering his men to follow, and the Queen had found herself falling into ranks._

_Crawling from the pits of hell, the creature gripped upon the ground, watching as the group began to leave. Upon the ground it slid, crawling its way to a fallen blade. Gripping the butt of the dagger, the orc mustered what strength resided within its legs; a hand gripped gingerly at the wound within its belly, staggering to hold ground. Chest rising and falling, the beast threw its arm within the air, throwing the blade toward the dark haired creature that rendered it lame. Through leather and mail it collided, sinking into the flesh below; she teetered, gripping upon what armor cladded being beside her for balance, crying out. Desperate she had been, reaching where it stung, determined to rid herself of what plagued her. She struggled, unbeknownst to the onslaught that had been hovering above. Another offered aid, tearing the blade from her shoulder and back upon the ground, whilst another had sent a bow through the creature’s skull. Fingers padded at the wound, examining the crimson upon her fingers._

_Thranduil turned, eyes scanning over her frame writh. “How bad?” he asked, gripping her shoulders and whipping her body around to examine the laceration._

_“I will live,” she cursed through gritted teeth, anger boiling in her face. Thuds echoed ahead of them, sending the guard around them to pounce upon the orcs that dove down from the walls around them. Her gaze rose to his, breathing still erratic as she tried to overcompensate with the pain eating upon her skin. Over his shoulder she had looked, immediately pushing her body against his and sending her sword to meet the prodding blade of the oncoming enemy. “MOVE!” The pair thrusted at one another in a dance, and the King fumbled to remove his blades from his hilt as he watched, stepping backwards as they continued to topple toward him. Her movements stumbled, something he observed first hand; miscalculation on her part caused the orc more leeway. Morivanië slipped upon the rubble and the orc finally found the opening it needed. She tried to recover, but it had been on top of her, sending its blade into her middle. Thranduil’s heart ceased to beat, feeling the woman and the creature collide into him. His hand rested upon her shoulder, blade swinging into it’s side, and pulling it away from her. It fell upon the cold ground, arms rising above it’s face before the blade sank into it’s throat._

_Blood dribbled through lips and her legs were failing her. A few meager steps forward, she had gone; eyes dulled as his own intense stare gazed upon her, widening as he watched the woman bend at the break. “Baw!” he roared once she met the ground, falling upon the wound; the warmth draining from her center, and her lids grew heavy. She sputtered to take a breath, choking upon her own blood, and causing her to cough at the blockage it inflicted. His knees crashed beside her, turning the rebel upon her spine. Gauntlets had been torn from his wrists, exposing his milky flesh that soon became stained when he threw them upon the hot wound. Her features writhed as he pushed against her gut, groaning lowly; she was fighting against the weight of her eyelids, the deep sleep calling her away from this realm. She focused on the sound of her name, and the command he had given her to look upon him._

_The heat surged over her open middle and she roared, feeling strength take hold of her body once more. The being hung over her, the glow of his hands; flesh reached for one another, seeking to close. “Anor valthen, togo lín nestad enin gûr hen,” he growled through mashing ivory, “ Ceven dhaer, annoe vellas lín enin ‘raw hen.” Lips quivered, eyes closing momentarily, processing the waves of agony gnawing at her bones. The darkness washed from her gaze, lids rising; flesh that carefully had been hidden, revealed to her -- his features sunken, vile from the serpent’s fire. His chants continued, eyes finally locking with her fading stare. Behind thick lashed, those beryl tints started to fade, and the darkness took hold of her once more, finally swallowing her whole. She had sunk below the water’s surface, and the hand that reached desperately for her had faded. She was lost, she was failing, and she welcomed this fate._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dago i goth -- Slay the Enemy  
> Boe ammen gawd -- We must gp  
> Tolo enni -- Come with me  
> Ni ‘lassui -- Thank you  
> Baw -- No  
> Anor valthen, togo lín nestad enin gûr hen -- Golden Sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart  
> Ceven dhaer, annoe vellas lín enin ‘raw hen -- Great earth, may you give your strength to this body


	4. So Goodnight Moon And Goodnight You

**F** reedom -- wind beneath her wings, hair bouncing wildly as the stallion galloped  along the path, dodging the fallen lumber; he too, appreciated such freedoms and had been unable to partake in romps throughout the wood for his master lay lame until this moment. Upon retrieval of the precious animal, he threw his head back and chattered loudly until he had been plucked from his stall and prepared for their journey. His pace slowed, heaving in the crisp winter air, and exhaling vast clouds of steam. Ears flicked about in different directions, raising his skull high as he glimpsed off in the distance; his head would lower again, shaking it to and fro, bouncing the rider lightly. His ears would again pin against his head, feeling fingers and weight upon his mane, scratching along velveteen fur; a smile took to her lips hearing a pleasing grunt, and the elf patted the side of his neck, slipping from his back. “Go on,” she motioned toward the running waters, sending the creature off to quench its thirst. East of the caverns had flourished, still untouched by the curse -- the direction the guard had told her to go if she wished to ride in peace. West, she knew the sickness that plagued this wood; too many returned with venom in their veins and riddled ill for days. If she was not able to aid within the field, she would aid with healing those afflicted.

 

As the beast gulped down the icy waters, she wandered, admiring what ruins remained. Within the clearing she walked, boots crunching the fresh snow beneath her boot. Idle fingers ran along the stone carvings, taking in every detail of the surroundings rubble -- a garden, perhaps? She dwelled on the thought that perhaps this had been set aside for someone near and dear, possibly the late-queen. Morivanië reached toward the covered statue and dusted the features off, revealing the femininity underneath.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

If she could have lept out of her skin, she would have launched herself into the treetops. Whipping around, he had stood elegant at the threshold of the clearing, and eyes narrowed upon him. Uneasy , he seemed, a different light shining down upon him that riddled with concern -- she had crossed her arms, brows raising and shoulders following the same motion. “I wished to go for a ride,” annoyance stealing her  vocals. Her stride brought her close to the worried tyrant, rubbing the side of his arm as she passed him. “Is it forbidden?”

 

“You’ve finally showed progress,” he argued.

 

“You mustn’t fret -- it is not a good look for you,” she jested, attempting to lift the mood, “Tis but a scar now; the flesh has held together under pressure.”

 

Protest took his features; she halted as his grip clasped around her wrist. “It has not been an easy road. I only wish for you to be complete before you are released from my company.” Thranduil took a moment to admire her features and cheeks, rose in color, from the winter winds kissing them. His grip loosened, falling from hers, and sighing, as he escaped that beryl stare. Hands reached forth, cupping dismal features, and held his strong jaw; a smile had been offered when his eyes had played with her own. The days passing brought forth a new King, or at least within her grace, and she had counted every blessing to see the softness he held. Long talks upon the balcony about the lives they lead, about the days of old; the enrichment of their conversations forced certain feelings to flourish for this man before her, and audibly, she sighed.

 

“Stop fussing, before it consumes you.” Her touch slipped from his skin, he gave small nod and acknowledged her request; beneath layers of ice, he felt a small fire beginning to melt the barricade that had been carefully built. He cursed this notion and could not process the breaking of the dam, the rushing waters nearly drowning him. Days -- days she riddled him a madman and left him wanting more. He drew her in, grew drunk off her words, and left him intoxicated upon the floor, trying to recover desperately before anyone could see him falter. She spoke of life outside these walls he had neglected, of a life in the distance. He envied her freedom, yet he didn’t wish for her to leave, and his selfish desires wanted to cage this beautiful bird for his own enjoyment. He would be a liar if he didn’t wish for her touch to linger sweetly, but he needed to collect himself and remain stoic, in the events his guard had witnessed this sweet meeting. Ithilwen had left a scar across his heart that he believed would never fully recover; Morivanië sought to undo all his careful precautions, and it was within these short months, he faltered from his path. The Elvenking toyed with the inner corners of his mouth, trying to focus his mind elsewhere.

 

“Ride with me,” he commanded, however his timbre light. To gratify his soul, Morivanië complied as she climbed atop the tawny beast, following behind the ivory horse. Silence washed over the pair, and the words were unable to be spoken. Instead, wandering eyes took in the shapes and sounds of the cold forest, the occasional snow drift falling from dead limbs, and upon the clean ground. She caught herself gawking every so often, taking in the slight tinge of his troubled appearance. Thranduil was a regal entity, hidden below several layers of masks; she wished to burn them all, and have him be truly as he was. For the moment, she had played the same game as he, stone faced upon their arrival back within his hollow; she would not give any reason for the others to speak ill about herself and he, or start any ridiculous notions of their quiet meetings. Her pace matched his, handing off the only familiar reminder of her home, to the trusted lackey.

 

“My lady,” he saved face, for the company around them watched as they strode in together. “I’d like to extend an invitation for you to join me this evening for dinner.” He pretended to seem as if he was not amused by his question, removing the furred winter cloak from his back, handing toward an eager maiden. The thickness of his brows rose, awaiting her answer. “So?” he prodded, irritation flooding his face. Lips pursed, her stare indignant.

 

“Perhaps,” she purred, handing her cloak off, and setting off toward her chambers.

 

“That is not an answer,” he called out, fussing his brow. Had she truly not given him a straight answer? Thranduil huffed, setting off in his own direction.

 

♦♦♦

 

“My lady,” Gwondes pushed the door, peering around the object. No answer. She pressed on, stopping to hang the garment on the outer lip of the armoire. “Lady Morivanië?” she called out again. The waters shifted, further pushing her curiosity, rounding the the corner of the lush room. Red strode across her features, quickly turning her back toward the rising body from the steamy waters. “I apologize, I hadn’t known you were-”

 

“You shy creature,” she chuckled, reaching for her robed, sliding it over her damp build. “What have you brought me?” she inquired, taking towel from the back of the chair, wringing it through spiraled locks.

 

“His grace has sent this,” she flushed, still avoiding looking at the woman. Morivanië crossed the room, taking the hem of the fabric in between her fingers, rolling the elegant charcoal silk that sparkled subtly within the candlelight.

 

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, admiring the craftsmanship of the seamstress who wove this together. Part of her prayed this hadn’t been plucked from his departed wife’s closet -- and quickly such insecurities had been swallowed, and she reminded herself of the evening at hand. Thranduil had only divulged so little about his departed beloved, but bringing up the past would only recoil progress the pair had made, or at least that was what she had feared. She prayed she had been wrong. “Come, Gwondes. Will you comb my hair?” Eyes had lit up within the younger to distract her buzzing mind, watching nodded eagerly, grabbing the comb from the vanity, pulling the chair out for the woman she tended to. She gripped the end of her wild strands, starting from the bottom, and working her way toward the top.

 

“His majesty has taken quite the liking to you,” an erupting giggle took the end of her sentence. Morivanië would not correct her, for she could not hide the soft smile pulling at her lips.

 

“We are very old,” she sighed, closing her eyes, and relishing the sensation of the doting lass combing her hair. “There are not many of us within Middle Earth that remember the days of old. We have much in common. Good company is hard to find.”

 

“Am I not good company?” wounded lightly, she paused with her work.

 

“That is a silly question.” Her crown leaned back, crooning her neck to look at the girl, resting her dome against the headrest of the hair. “I’ve grown very fond of you and Padeth… almost like the daughters I’ve yearned to have.”

 

“Have you no children, my lady? No king?”

 

“I…” a huge hurdle had blocked her path, leaning her head back upright to hide her expression. “I have a daughter,” she finally mustered. “She lives within Lothlórien, conducting her studies.”

 

“You did not answer my other question; have you a lover?”

 

“No. He has not been amongst the living for a long, long, long time. He was lost to me when Sauron first rose to power.”

 

“I--” she trailed off, flustered at her prodding, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to ask so many questions. I just-”

 

“Do not fret,” Morivanië sang, turning her middle to look back at her. Hands reached to touch the freckled chin, raising it up to look upon her. “My heart has healed. Your questions do not bother me.” The younger’s lips parted, having trouble finding her words; her fingers touched the hand that gripped her chin, leaning into it. A softness shone upon the heathen Queen’s face, caressing the babe’s cheek, letting her fingers withdraw from her. Her eyes rose at the blonde’s entry, carrying the jug of wine and two goblets. Padeth paused, brow furrowing at the pair and looking around the room.

 

“His majesty? He is late…?”

 

“No,” the woman stood, placing the chair back against the vanity. “Lord Thranduil and I will not be upon the balcony this evening. I have been summoned to join him for dinner.” Blue eyes widened at the statement, looking at the other maiden in the room with a hint of excitement.

 

“M-may we… may we help you get ready?”

 

“Yes! My lady, please?? Can we set your hair and paint your face?” Padeth bounced lightly upon her heels, quickly setting the platter down upon the end table, and reaching to pull the woman toward the vanity. Immediately her heart warmed, brows arching lightly in response to the two juveniles who pleaded obsessively for it to be so. The lady had nodded, obliging to their request, and settled within the chair.

 

♦♦♦

 

Flowing silver silks caught the lighting of every torch lit along the hall, more so as she entered into the vast dining hall. Alone he sat at the head of the table, eyes affixed on the parchment he occupied his time with. The movements of her frame caught his attention, rising his eyes from the scribbled words, and upon her; lips parted faintly, dumbfounded by the elegance this self-proclaimed ruler had held. Immediately he rose, meeting her stride, and pulling the chair for her to sit. Privacy had been acquired, the doors locked from prying eyes, and offering their conversation to go unheard by unwanted company. Her appearance was beyond acceptable and here he was, broken and left without words -- he did not want to spoil this occasion and left his comments to himself. Yet, how cruel the handmaidens were, for they giggled and gawked whenever they could upon the pair as if they were trying to insinuate a kindling happening between them. He would not deny, her grace and beauty had been something his eyes could not withdraw from, and for a moment, the King of the Woodland Realm was left silent with only a smirk to taint his lips.

 

“Is it too much?” she inquired, brow raising as reached for her goblet, taking a hefty gulp. Thranduil had shook his head, but she felt the pit in her gut rise slightly.

 

“You look,” he was hard to read, or she was acting just as silly as the pair that prepared her, “beautiful.” Still, only his eyes shone what truly was storming within his noggin, and Morivanië prayed the heat tinging her ears would not flush to her features. She drew in a breath, and unfortunately for her, she could not hide her cards as well as he; she could not pretend that his compliment did not please her, and she adjusted herself within the seat to sit as a civilized woman of higher society. As informal as this dinner had meant to be, it felt all too ceremonial. Perhaps she had been rusty and lack of elvish culture left her rough around the edges. Still, within his presence she could not rest. He watched her out of his peripherals, pleased with the way the evening had begun to pan out. “I appreciate that you humored my performance early. Rumors have spread like wildfire, and I do not wish to feed the flame.”

 

“Oh? Do tell me. What sort of hearsay have we sparked?”

 

“Is it not obvious?” his brows rose, admiring her childish behavior. She seemed quite pleased with herself, lifting her fork to jab at the bits of greenery upon her plate, and placing them within her mouth. This woman had rivaled his lost Ithilwen; the nightmares of her loss had dissipated -- no longer did he hear her cries through the dragon’s fire, nor the way she teased his mind. A certain healing touched his soul; he did not fight it this time.

 

“And you are bothered by this?” she asked once she had swallowed, reaching to wash down the rest with another swig of the fruity nectar. His silence spoke louder than he knew, and she watched the change of his features as they lightened. She hadn’t known exactly what she was doing, but she knew the quarter of the season spent within these halls, this nagging at her gut made her heart beat a different song. She had watched the leaves fall from the tree branches and the first snows take hold of the forest; together they had watched the passing of seasons, although it felt as something new, for it had been together.

 

“How are your people?” he broke the silence, focusing upon the plate before him, and placing the contents to his lips. Thranduil watched the birds flutter through his kingdom and how frequent the messages had been from the South; it seemed as if it were daily that letters had been delivered to this leader, and her presence sorely missed. He did not send the birds away, since that was petty and beyond his idea of honor, but Thranduil would lie if he did not imagine himself sitting upon his balcony and absently shooting the creatures from the sky with his arrows. Still, he acquiesced, allowing the message to arrive effortlessly.

 

“They will endure. We were better prepared for winter this year -- trade plentiful, the sea bountiful, and my best still holding life. They remain efficient without my reign.” She had been overjoyed that they had been well and no need to worry like a mother hen, tending to her chicks. “Talro claims Dáin honored his word, sent them with compensation for their aid in the battle, as well as the supplies I scrounged together for his people.”

 

“You hold such report with the dwarf,” he interjected, “Such an odd alliance. How did that come to be?”

 

“I stole from Dáin,” she was dry. His expression turned curious, sipping on his drink, and continued to listen. “We were desperate and intervened in his trade route. Stole what we could, but sent his men home. His son pleaded to join us, for his father would surely chop his hands off or something along the lines of that, for allowing elves and men to rob them blind. Dáin heard of his son’s capture, marched upon our humble abode, and threatened to burn us to the ground. He found his son had willingly joined our clan, and sympathy took over. We’ve had a steady trade with him since.” Sentiment drew upon the memories, and she grinned to herself. “Speaking of, how goes negotiations with Dale and Erebor? Have you made progress?”

 

“Dale, yes,” he refreshed his goblet, as well as her own. “The Bowman has assumed the throne of Dale, and a steady supply of our crops reach them each fortnight. There is promise of compensation once Dale is rebuilt, and I trust Bard -- he is a good man, he will repay his debts. Erebor…” Thranduil grew rigid with agitation, sucking the wine down.

 

“You should have heeded my advice.”

 

“I will not adhere to his demands,” he snapped, gaze intent with hints of rage. Quickly he felt the mood somber, and waved off his frustrations. “I… only wish to have what was stolen, and like his kin, he dangles it before me so I will fall upon a knee, and swear my loyalties. I will not.”

 

“What is it that was taken?”

 

“My,” he did not wish to dance upon this subject, but he trusted this woman, and he could not say that about just anyone. She brought a certain comfort with her presence and it was becoming an addiction. “My wife’s gems were taken from my home after her passing -- sold to the dwarves in hopes of uniting our peoples. Thror claimed he recovered them from the filth that took them. He humbly kept them safe until my arrival, but he had fallen to the sickness of the mountain and I am still left empty handed.” The sour taste puckered his features, swallowing the harsh reality of the situation. “How is your condition?”

 

“My condition? You very well know I am healed. Why are you inquiring so brashly?”

 

“I do not wish to tread upon my problems and merely have changed the subject. I ask because I plan to ride to Dale in the coming days, and it would please me to have you at my side. I am to see the delivery of the lumber taken from the Southern wood and to negotiate the terms of leaving a band of my men behind to aid in the reconstruction. So, will you accompany me?”

 

She nodded, placing her fork upon her plate. She reached for his emptied plate, stacking the objects, and pushing them out of the way. “I would enjoy a bit of freedom.” The woman leaned into the cushion, nursing the goblet rested in between both hands. The tingle rose from her gut, igniting her senses, shortly numbing them. A lush, she had become, from the constant bit of spoiling he had indulged her. Thranduil watched her pleased appearance -- he had been staring, but he did not remove his eyes from her. How many glasses had they tossed back? He knew the effects of his comforts had begun to taken hold, and only assumed she had been under the same spell. He rose, vanquishing the rest of his cup, and reached for her hand. Morivanië peered from behind the cup, finishing her own, and placing it upon the table before taking his grip. The pair sat in silence for some time, processing bits of information passed to one another, but more so, they soaked in each others company. Small talk had ceased to exist, and Thranduil’s wandering eyes watched the woman, so content in her chair. Tender reminders played in his head, and having another so strong at his side, made him almost forget the hurt that stung his heart. Everything against Elvish nature had stirred within him; his mate was deceased, and so should his heart, but why was it feeling so much more alive? He had enough -- it swelled like the rising tides within him, and the feeling had to be crushed before it consumed him. Still, he longed, a sensation that was so unfamiliar.

 

“I will walk you back to your room,” he murmured, eyes beginning to grow heavy. And how could she deny his request? She drew upon his handsome features and allowed him to guide her from the dining hall. She would not, however, allow him be a distant figure; sweetly her arms had wrapped around his, keeping the pace slow so she could remember each step they took. He tensed momentarily, but finally eased; he did not care who witnessed their joining , and he had been rendered helpless under her holding.

 

_“If this is love, I do not want it. Take it from me, please…” she begged, tears streaming forth down freckled cheeks, clasping the hand of the dwarf. “Why does it hurt so much?”_

_Thranduil stood silent, and for an instant he felt the deep seeded heartache he had bore for too long. Upon the ground, one of his own, suffering the same fate as he -- now Tauriel knew the cost of love, and the cross she would bare. There had been a hint of dew within those distant, cold eyes, stifling a breath to catch himself before he too, had fallen. He spent the better part of a century without such a feeling, and for the walls of ice to crack slightly at the sight of this, Thranduil hadn’t known the gravity of this meeting. She looked to him for guidance, finally witnessing the humanity left within him. His voice was unwavered, yet, still ripe with the rawness love had left upon his wretched soul. “Because it was real,” he was firm, taking a step forward in respect, bowing his head, to pass a breath through parted lips._

 

Thranduil remembered the way those eyes had screamed such pain, and how she accused him of having no love left in his heart; the ice had slowly melted and with each passing day, Thranduil was more accepting to the feelings that stirred from hibernation. His son departed from his halls, as well as the Captain of the Guard, and Thranduil had been left in the wake of old memories and flashes of wars that had passed dancing in his head. The constant force that kept him balanced had been nestled in his side, walking beside him. Perhaps these feelings that sifted through the dust were making him soft -- he didn’t wish to stop feeling the way he felt with this Queen at his side. And her doorway brought him disdain, huffing a breath.

 

“Thranduil,” her head rose, slipping her hands from around his arm, and arching her spine into the wall behind her. “Allow me to speak to the dwarf. You have done so much to keep me comfortable, and you have offered your home to my recovery. Please?”

 

“I cannot ask this of you,” he crossed his arms, remaining in close proximity to the woman. “I have explained that you owe me nothing… You can stay within these halls as long as you like. I would be deemed a liar if I did not admit that I loathe the coming of spring.” He cursed the liquor swirling around in his gut, giving him courage to speak what had truly been on his mind. “I have grown accustomed having you within my home. It would be empty if you were to depart…”

 

And as if she hadn’t pondered the idea of staying, but there had been those whom depended upon her. Arching brows and the closing of her eyes was her reaction to such selfish thoughts. “I cannot remain,” she whispered, trying to avoid the heated gaze that tore into her. A hand rested beside her crown and Thranduil towering over her frame. Her gut rolled and she reacted by placing her hands upon his robes, smoothing the seams. THe beat of her heart accelerated, throbbing in her throat. “You cannot do this to me,” she pleaded, though part of her longed to pull his body closer to her own. “You pray upon my lack of sobriety.”

 

His head lowered, a sigh emitting. His strands sifted, her hands dancing along the sides of his head, pushing his hair from his face. She pulled his jaw close to her face, placing a small peck upon his cheek. “No vaer i dinnu, Thranduil,” glistening hints of green played with his storm-tossed orbs as she slipped from his hearth.

 

“Ollo vae,” he replied, melancholy with the turn of events. His crown reared, face toward the ceiling as he exhaled loudly. This hold over him, he prayed it would leave him, and offer him peace; he did not know if he could carry the burden with the blossoming spring.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No vaer i dinnu -- Goodnight  
> Ollo vae -- Sweet dreams


	5. When Our Hearts Are Heavy Burdens, We Shouldn’t Have To Bear Alone

**L** ips dispersed course gropes upon subtle flesh, feeling the body below move and coo sweet melodies of her affliction. Every stride, the way her skin pimpled under rough hands, the way he left her breathless -- Thranduil tore her closer, holding the object that made this wall of ice melt; he felt the thump of her wild heart and the hot breath behind his ear. Adoration, there was just utter adoration as fingers caressed the sides of that beautiful face, flushed with ecstasy; her flesh blistered, moans turning to harrowing shrieks, until the body below just became ash. He fought, he pleaded, digging through the dust of her body searching, until he felt the heat on his own flesh, boiling and rotting it away. Had only it been so… that this nightmare would become a reality. How cruel this life was and how cruel he became.  

 

It was endless, and even though sleep held so much promise, he never truly was prepared for the sound of her voice calling his name as the hellfire descended from the heavens; he stirred with a sheen a sweat lacing a paled complexion, chest softly rising and falling. He wouldn't succumb to the beast of his nightmares, nor let it stir him from the sheets, screaming her name, as he done for years; a mere flicker of cold hues fluttered behind thick lashes, forcing a heave of his breast, and exhaling verbally. These visions hadn’t come to him since the days of the rebel Queen had taken residence in his halls. The king was weary, eyes bouncing around the tent, trying to get himself composed.

 

_"Thranduil, no!" Hands clawed upon scraps of metal still clinging to his frame, yanking him from the beasts flames. They all screamed as they all burned, but still he tried to escape the grips as he cried out her name over and over again across the battlefield. Divinity hadn't been the word, but it seemed a glow around her shone brightly than any other. They glimmered, his hues, seeing she still held breath. Unable to hold their lord, he was able to break free with a few flying fists, scrambling to her position until -- the flames._

_"Ithilwen!" a break in his voice hitched the syllables of her name. Again, he scanned, seeing her valiance and vigor, fighting off the hell fiends, before he heard it -- her cries. Through the fire she screamed out, and he pursued those screeches until he had been licked; his face ignited, pain snarling down the length of his jaw and neck. Blinded, he attempted his pursuit. Mad, crazed even, their cries behind him, shouting his royal name, hadn't been heard. If not for the hands and bodies that pulled him away, screaming her name as his flesh melted, he would have joined her until their bodies turned to ash._

 

Palm resting against his forehead, the Elvenking released a heavy sigh, brows fussing as he recalled such bitter memories; the pain in his chest caused him to wince, and just the thought of his dead beloved brought forth ache. It had been a feeling he kept close to him, learning to live with it, but now he wished to be free. How much longer did he need to endure this ache? Why did she always come back to him when he had taken a step forward, only to take three back?

 

“Thranduil,” the voice called out, fabrics of his tent shifting. He leaned up from his cot, balancing his elbow upon his knee, and pinching the bridge of his nose. The king sat with his head in his hands, praying for these nightmares not to haunt him this evening. How quickly he had recovered, finally peering at the dark figure that slipped within his bastion; the ache mulled until it stopped plaguing him, exhaling as he watched her saunter toward him, settling within the chair. “Are you alright?” her words sincere, her features growing concerned for his solemn appearance.

 

“I will endure,” he breathed, reaching for his robe, and slipping from the sheets; he retreated out of her eyesight, pulling upon simple under garbs and his breeches, and returned to his companion. Her expression hadn’t changed, nudging the cockles of his heart. Thranduil sat across from her, still fighting the sleep that held him, although at that moment he had wished he’d never have to sleep. The ringing of her voice, screaming through the flames, still cried in his head and rose the hair on the back of his neck. It had all grown quiet; the sensation of her touch upon his wrist, gripping it softly, had silenced everything. He was almost grateful, staring into those intense orbs that seemed to strip him bare. He could not hide, no matter how he tried to keep his face stern and unaffected by the harrowing images. Thranduil lowered his gaze, gingerly caressing the hand that tried to soothe him. “Just bitter reminders of what has been lost, come to prod my mind every time I start to forget.”

 

Morivanië could not help but feel sympathy, not letting it stay upon her features for too long; he wished to forget, and she could not sit here and emphasize on the nightmares that shook him. “We must prepare,” she would remind him of the day ahead. The journey short, but they had rode straight through, which drew them within their beds a little longer than they anticipated. “If we keep him waiting any longer, I fear we will be fighting a losing battle.” He nodded, though he hadn’t wished to move from his space. It nearly took everything within him to convince himself to rise and reluctantly, he had moved and slipped his fingers from her skin. Armor sat upon the mannequin in the corner and he had sought it out, touching the breast plate. “You do not need that,” she found a small chuckle following her words. “We are not going into battle and rest assured,” she moved to his position, hand touching his as she removed it from the magnificent steel, “The dwarves will not harm you.”

 

She rummaged through the hanging attired, sorting through what he had brought; she would have sworn they were within his chambers, rolling her eyes at the lavish are he had set up for himself. He was a prima donna, she knew this all too well, and he was an typical elf, so very vain. She didn’t quite mind it, or the fact that she had been absolutely spoiled and was given the life she once lived long ago, amongst her kin. “Here,” she murmured, removing the dark silks, prying the buttons open, and holding it out for him. Thranduil, dumbfounded by her preening, slowly turned his back to her, slipping his arms through. No woman had dressed him like this, except for her; maybe this was another small step forward, as much as he hated being reminded of such things. He rose his chin, feeling her fingers close his bindings, up to his neck, and smoothing out the collar. Slowly his gaze slinked down upon her, his chest rising and falling softly, even as his heart beat wildly under the still waters. This wayward temptress was causing him to sway to the beat of her spell, and he wasn’t going to fight it.

 

“My lord,” the flap of the tent pried open once more, pausing as the guard looked upon the pair. Thranduil hadn’t skipped a beat, turning his attentions upon the guardsman. “The Dwarven king has sent he is ready. Shall I-”

 

“No, we were about to leave,” the woman interjected, pulling the blackened fur closer around her shoulders. She reached for a thick robe for the King, handing it off to him and pushing past into the cold. Thranduil had been quick to followed the woman as she took to the path that lead to Erebor. His pace had picked up until he had been walking in rhythm with her.  “Allow me to speak. I know how to barter with Dáin and win the conversation.”

 

“You act as if I am a novice.” He took offense, biting the corners of his mouth.

 

“No, you are not. But you know how to start a war with that sharp tongue. We are here to establish an alliance and get back what you’ve gone to war for…” She had been right, he knew that, so he remained silent as they walked through the snow from the broken city and onto their exalted march upon the mountain. The mouth had been reopened, Thorin’s makeshift wall had been torn down. The pair had been greeted by the dwarven guard, Morivanië bowed her head in greeting; she slipped past, only hearing the shuffling of steel behind her -- they had blocked the King from moving further, his lips parting in anger. “He’s with me-”

 

“King’s orders, m’lady. Only you, not ‘im..”

 

Thranduil gritted his teeth, locking his jaw. She caught him ready to explode, seeking to cut his words off. “At least let him come out of the cold…” The duo weighed her words, nodding in agreeance, and let the Elvenking further into the dwarf’s hollow grounds. He looked toward her for an answer and not liking this change in course. “It’ll be alright,” she told him, to try and ease the angst locking his throat. The raven-haired elf moved with the shuffling men that came for her, only looking back momentarily at the man; she was alone in this adventure, though she had been relieved that she didn’t have to worry about the two going head to head. The halls laced with gold held her attentions, admiring the dwarven craft while they moved her swiftly through into the throne room. Eyes locked upon the seated figure, the crown of his kin atop his head. “It suits you,” she tried to be familiar with him, taking a few steps toward him only to stop when his hand rose.

“Ye two-face sow,” he barked, rising from his seat and toward her. “Comin’ in ‘ere with yer mitts stretched out for charity. An’ with yer own kind, I see…”

 

“I thought you knew me better. Tsk, tsk… I’ve merely come to congratulate you on your coronation as King of Erebor, and to thank you.”

 

“T’ thank me?” he questioned harshly.

  
“My men tell me you’ve set them on their way with sacks full and plenty of harvest for winter.”

 

“Aye…” he sighed, arms crossing as he stood at the landing of the steps. “Yer men fought by our side. Only right t’ reward them fer their efforts.”

 

“They fought because I asked them, do not forget where their loyalties lie. I apologize, but grave matters had to be handled that day.”

 

“Oh? An’ what was so important as t’ interfere?”

 

“My daughter,” she breathed, head lowering slightly. “As a parent, I ask for you to see reason. I have been given an oppertunity to right a wrong.”

 

The dwarf sighed heavily, eyes rolling before he submitted to her will. He had known the loss of his child, even if he still held breath; he could only sympathize. “Why are ye’ here? Fer yer share, no less?”

 

“Only if I am deemed worthy of a reward.”

 

“Aye, ye are. I don’t go back on me word.”

 

“Then I ask for the gems of starlight, as my portion of payment.”

 

Fury laced his brow, heavy under the weight of her request. “This is fer that spineless sprite?”

 

“Perhaps. I am not asking for all of them, just the bits of jewelry. The rest can be earned by Thranduil, for he seeks to make amends, and forge an alliance with the Dwarves of Erebor.” The new king demonstrated his resistance to this notion, but before he could have spoken, she continued. “You need lumber to rebuild, and will surely clear out the forests around before you can make a dent. Thranduil has the means to supply you with the demand and cleanse his wood in the process by removing the sick trees. They have proven sturdy and untainted outside the forest -- Lord Bard has been using the materials to rebuild Dale and is quite pleased with the stock. However, you will return the remaining gems as payment for lumber. You need the materials and he wants what was stolen returned to him. Once the gems have been given back, we can negotiate the terms.”

 

Dáin dwelled on the turning gears in his head, keeping the woman waiting with bated breath; finally he had given her an answer by stepping forth from his throne, and reaching with his hand extended. “Before I change me mind,” he grunted. Morivanië smiled, taking his hand to shake it and accept this deal. “Bring up the gems,” he called.

 

Her stride fierce, bouncing in triumph as she emerged. Thranduil had been eager to see her return; she didn’t give him any indication of what had happened within the throne room, only lead him back out into the cold. “Were you--” he stopped, her chesire grin stealing his breath. She reached under the furred cloak, pulling a small box and extended it toward him.

 

“I’ve taken it as my share,” she told him, eyes urging him to take it. Slowly he took it from her, thumb running over the seam, prying it open; the air left his lungs. The circlet had been the first to rise from the velveteen holdings, parts of his face twingeing as he looked upon the objects of his lost beloved. His lip rolled under ivory momentarily, and looked further within the object, pushing aside earrings, bangles, and the large elaborate necklace. “The rest will be returned upon payment,” she didn’t wish to burst his bubble, but the tune was changed and written clearly upon his face. “Like Bard, you are to deliver lumber to Erebor so the dwarves can--”

“You ask me to strip my wood bare so these little-”

 

“I am asking you to swallow your pride and help these people. If it was your own? What would you do?” He didn’t speak further, eyes rolling and turning his cheek. “Numbers have been lost, all have been dealt a heavy blow. This land needs healing and it starts with all parties laying down their arms. The dwarves are willing and you must seize this opportunity, or you will not be given another one.”

 

“You,” he hated to admit it, but he spoke before he could take it back, “Are right…” That was all he would give her and ushered them back toward Dale. All he could feel was the singing of his heart and the way the box felt in his grip; it brought so much closure to have these objects returned to him, even if it wasn’t all of them. Here he had been acting like a selfish prat, he had forgotten about the efforts this woman had made on his behalf. “Ni ‘lassui,” he whispered, his free hand slipping over her lower back, and walking closer to her. “You have shown me a kindness that I have not seen in such a long time. This gesture, having these back, you do not know the joy that swells my heart.”

 

“I only hope it allows old wounds to heal,” she smiled, hiding her face from him. His touch ignited her soul, leaning into his torso as they marched upon the steps, and back to the scorched city.

 

“I am afraid I have matters to discuss with the Bowman. I shall call for you when I am finished?”

 

“Of course,” she dipped her head, slipping from the warmth of his side.

 

♦♦♦

 

The men had been occupied by the fires, laughing with the people of Dale, as this budding alliance was blossoming quickly; Bard had upheld his promises and assured Thranduil of any insecurities he may have had. The elf seemed to respect the man more than he had let on, and would see that they remained in this peaceful state. Darkness offered cover, her arrival quiet; she slipped within his tent, clutching the fur around her shoulders tightly; his hearth empty, lacking the royal who beckoned her from her own warm tent. She removed her cloak, tossing upon the chair, as she wandered back to the armor within the corner. She had not seen it up close, but she admired each rivet and elaborate marking upon it.

 

“It was my father’s,” he told her, making the woman jump again. She wanted to curse at him, but her burning stare did all the talking for her. The only thing he could do was smile, pleased with himself; the cloak slipped from his back, and landed where her’s had been.

 

“I trust everything went accordingly? The men seem at ease.”

 

“Yes. It went quite well.” Thranduil crossed to the jug, pouring the contents into the pair of goblets; he walked toward her, handing her the cup. “If we work with haste, perhaps by fall, we will have made a dent in repairs.” He rose his goblet, “But this is a celebration to new beginnings.”

 

“Mhmm,” she agreed, pressing her cup against his, “To new beginnings.”  The pair took their first sip, shared in that small moment in time; she looked toward him, finding he had already been staring down upon her. “Is this from the barrels I saw upon the carts?”

 

“Yes,” he placed his cup upon the table. “A gift from Dale -- imported Dorwinion wine. We shall be saving the remainder Mereth Nuin Giliath at the end of the month. For now, we can have a taste.” His brows rose in a mischievous manner, as if he had stolen it from the cellars himself. Morivanië couldn’t help, but smile at his benevolent nature, as it had been refreshing that the stone face he normally wore. No, within the quiet moments alone with her, he had opened up on different levels, only truly expressing them when they had been alone.

 

His hand swept across the side of her neck, moving the dark spirals aside. “Thank you,” he was firm and full of appreciation. “You have continued to indebt me, and I do not know how to pay my debts. I am touched by your generosity and aiding me in recovering Ithilwen’s gems.”

 

“I did it because I wished to help you,” she admitted. It was a token of her affections, unable to express them in any other way that small touches and spending time with the Elvenking. Like he, she had thought these feelings of admiration for another, would have remained dormant, but here they were, rearing their ugly heads. She made an attempt to back out of his touch, not because she did not wish for him to be near, but for the realization that they once belonged to another soul; would she betray her own deceased beloved if she succumbed to these feelings? A crown fell, smile slipping coyly upon her lips, and the woman withdrew from his touch; the wine offered an ease of insecurities flourishing and twisting, giving her a moment to settle the rolling storm. Defeat tore through his core, gulping down the contents in his glass to hide his face momentarily. “Allow me,” he murmured as he took it from her, crossing the room to refill both of their goblets.

 

The evening bore on, losing count at how many times he had risen and fell into back into his seat. The poor sap station outside of his tent had gone to and fro from the supply, refilling the jug countless times, and cursing his master. “My lord,” he muttered, peeking his head through the flap with yet another refill. He set it upon the table just inside the tent before quickly retreating. Morivanië trotted toward it, filling the goblets until they almost overflowed. How many had this been? Every sense had been numb, tingling warmly, features warm under its mystical effects, and a feeling she longed to keep. Truly it had been the first moment between them that Thranduil laughed freely, unburdened by the crown affixed his head or the duties he had for his people. No, he had finally descended upon the playing field as an equal, stripped of rank and title -- free.

 

Humbly he sat within his chair, eyes closed and a smug smile painted across his elegant face. She paused in her task, admiring every fine detail that made him so dreadfully handsome; his wife had been immensely fortunate, if this version of him had truly been the man she married. And how fortunate his eyes looked toward her in these times. She didn't know if it was the bubbling liquor twirling through her veins or that the truth was coming undone, but she knew where she stood. Elves truly only love once within their time, but what had been happening? By no means had it been of that extreme, but a holding he had over her made the foreign Queen question such traditions. Finally she had grasped the cups, marching back to where he was. She leaned over him, curtains of ebony cascading over paled flesh, as she placed upon the table. Her sweet scent, how it further intoxicated him, and it had finally grown too much for him to endure; his hand held her hip, steadying the drunken woman hanging over him, though he had been no better. It still did not hinder his judgement, and within his heart he knew this was what he truly wanted.

 

Soft were his eyes, as he drew her in; Morivanië swallowed hard, lower her gaze as she smiled. How long would she deny what troubled her? She rose, feet trying to find holding upon the makeshift carpet thrown down upon the earth below them. She longed for her seat; near him, she was losing whatever sense she had left. As she moved, her feet would not listen, fumbling on her way back to her chair. Hands reached, catching before she further embarrassed herself, and it was he that she collided upon. The goblet in her hand spilling over, most upon the ground, the least of her worries; he held her upon him, watching the spread of red across her face, lips parting. “I think we’ve had enough,” he expressed, smiling when he reached for the glass still in her grip, and placing it next to his. She did not move from his hold, to his surprise. Each time he drew close, just longing to whisper what had been going on inside his head, she had always slipped from him for reasons he didn’t know. She pouted, further stretching his smile. Even as she acted so foolish, she radiated her immense allure over him. “You,” he paused, causing her to wait in anticipation. The smile faded, sincerity lacing his brow. “You are beautiful.”

 

There -- her heart skipped. Why had he been torturing her? She wanted to blame this on the wine they consumed, but it wasn’t it. He soothed all of worry, hand upon her face, running his thumb along her jaw. He had waited a million hours to just say that, to come that far; even if he did not have a clear head, his heart saw clarity. These words hadn’t been spoken to her in a long, long time, and sheepish she grew under the weight of it. Still, she looked upon him, easing herself toward his features, and doing what felt right. Lips brushed against his, a small offering to his kind words, but more so to finally break free from her own insecurities. She longed, pleaded for his company to solely be hers, and each time it had, she ran in fear. Her heart closed off, just as his, but he had opened his for her and rudely she didn’t accept his generous offer. She played along his strong jaw, hands reaching to hold either side of his face. “Why do you torture me?” she whispered.

 

“These are the words that have gone unsaid for too long.” Her hair soft, flowing through his hand. She leaned into his touch, eyes closing as the sensation of his running hand along her scalp. “I’ve longed for you,” his admission to guilt, but if he was being honest, now was the time to shower her with suppressed feelings. “It has pained me, to the point I fear I would be driven mad… It would be so cruel to embellish upon it -- I only have you for such a short time, before you leave.”

 

“Then,” she rolled her hip, placing her legs on either side of him, settling within his lap. “A short time we have together.”

 

“That’s not what I want,” his lips close, focusing upon the curvature of her jaw. “I want you to stay. Indulge me everyday… Stay,” he would plead softly, “Stay with me, Morivanië.”

 

“You know that is not feasible…”

 

“Then stay with me tonight… and each night you remain.”

 

Wandering hands held her girth, resting upon the bone, thumbs circling the small bits of flesh exposed through the slits in the sides of her black robes. She answered, pressing her lips back against his. Thranduil’s mouth sought hers again, deepening the act that began so innocently; she did no hesitate as she had done time and time again, running his tongue against his, teeth clashing as they unleashed the hells that had consumed their old bones. Her taste pulled within him, choirs singing loudly in his head as he relished her close to his chest, unable to keep hands still.

 

The crook of her neck called him, groping along the elegant curve that riled a reaction from the woman atop, sighing as he continued. He nipped upon her collarbone, her lips parting as she tipped quietly, toying with her lip. He wanted to be drunk off her, kiss each part that had been exposed. He moved along her shoulder once more, feeling her hands work through the silken strained on his crown, the weight of her hips swaying gently to a tune unheard. Fingers dared to roll upon the sensitive hip, freezing every ounce of her; she moved into his hand that dared tempt her, teasing along her sex as he chewed away upon her. Ecstasy ripped along her skin, cooing with each passage, finally mustering enough courage to dance at the hand between her legs.

 

He took her, standing with her around his hip, hands cupping below her thighs as he fumbled toward the cot. He indulged her and laid her perfectly across the sheets. Spine rested upon the sheets, she watched as he undid the tunic she worked so hard to place upon him earlier that day, exposing the ripe torso below. Her eyes wandered, brows fussing at the marred flesh that matched the markings upon his face; he did not hide the flesh upon his chest, as he did his face, , nor the other scars from battles past. She was dazed, star stricken even. She bathed in his impurities, shoulders moving to free himself from the rest of his bindings. Morivanië gave him an appreciative graze across the thickness of his neck as he surrendered over her, drawing in the way his flesh shone within the dull candlelight, the way his skin tasted under her lips. Sweet and filled with desire, she found his mouth; her kiss matched the hunger that pained her belly, until she had been satisfied, devouring every inch of him until she could take no more. She refused to acknowledge any other actions, but the fire of her kiss upon his lips. There was no more fighting, there was no denying the revelation of attraction and longing, there was just him and her, and the dangerous game they had played. She thanked him, not verbally, but with every fiber of her being, she thanked him -- he drowned out the noises in her head and drew her focus to every rippling roll of flesh presented to her, like an offering. The king pulled from her lips, falling upon bended knee, and nestling between her thighs, pushing the fabrics up past her hip. She trembled, his wet kiss her belly. He hovered above her, pulling the gown above her head, gazing down upon her stark frame within his bed, as she had been upon her name day. He was lost in each curve; the gems did not match her beauty, for she had surpassed even the memories laced with them.

 

Here, he faltered, until he caved into her warmth, hands wandering and licking over the gift given to him. His hands worked mechanically to undo the rest upon his hide, slipping from his breeches. He roamed her chest, kissing her breast bone until he caught her lips, bruising them under the weight of his. No longer could he withhold, longing to be as one; her passage invaded, both gulping air as hips settled upon one another.  He forced all ill images from her and dispersed the ghosts of her past, not allowing them to haunt her further on this glorious night. She asked him to alleviate her pain and there was no hesitation, Thranduil was swifter than the west winds after a chilling stom, reigning over her like some champion that slayed the fearsome beast; her lips locked with his, digits sweeping the back of his glorious mane, gripping the ends as her body drove into his. Opposing forces fought to gain ground, tongues clashing in the exchange of the white heat dousing their frames. He would dare test the fearsome Queen, toying with her lower lip to force an animalistic growl that pulled at the base of those vocal chords. She rolled, grinding down into his length like some methodical virgin, quivering at the act that had been so foreign,  yet so familiar. He stole her breath, stole her righteous title, and she hadn’t known exactly how she was going to fare in this war. He hadn’t been a lithe creature, but this blocky monstrosity that was proportioned generously. She couldn’t hold her tongue as a slew of mish mashed elven floated from her lips. The heat of his body, the elegant swirl of well place movements, colliding deeper, deeper beyond her wildest fantasies about him.  

 

Each stride stronger than the last, each buck methodical and well placed, making her sing louder and louder. “I need you,” she managed to tell him, losing control of every function while booze and sheer adrenaline took control of the ample woman at his mercy. She slipped her arms around his shoulders, begging for him with soft whispers into his ear. The broad expanse of shoulders and back tensed, groaning under her writhing body that drove him to madness and beyond. He sought to drown in her mercy, sink in the heat of her flesh. Each stride into her caused her to belt out a hymn, each time he pressed into her, she cooed. Fingertips dug and sank deep into flesh or silken sheets below, his mouth groaning words of praise, of worship, before silenced by the hunger that she hand. The woman rose from her spot, held within his strong grip as he settled upon the bedside, her fully upon his groin. Whatever rapture that came forth, she found his entire length settle, hand upon his lower abdomen as she allowed her witchcraft to taint his pure heart. A wild dancer, her hips sauntered and swirled around upon him, not daring to leave the warmth of his aura; she caught his lips part in awe, eyes roaming her body, until her could no longer stand not being under her skin. His hands gripped upon the hip that moved with precise calculation, admiring the rhythm she swayed too. The heat of her sex throbbed, feeling his hand coyly brush against it; she sighed heavily, using his shoulders to balance above him, colliding against his hip in her dance. The timbre of his vocals roared with pleasure, eyes half mast as he watched this temptress bring him from oblivion and into ecstasy. He peppered her jaw with kisses, trying to regain his breath, but he was losing this battle; his heart nearly sprang from his chest.

 

He wanted to consume her, wanted to remain within this promise land until his days were no more. Her stride brought haste, his workings forcing her own battle cries as she rolled into him, feeling his swell continue to rip through her. He mashed against her neck, suckling as she cried, finding it within him to meet her in careful strokes and stride, until her body writhed, releasing upon him in a flow of song and worship. She ached, her muscles tensing until they released, and her lips falling back into his. Her body stricken, muscles throbbing; she dug her nails into the wing spand of her king until he offered mercy. She glowed with heavenly euphoria. She moved with purpose, seeking to bring him to the shores he sent her upon. Thranduil breathed heavily at the slam upon his length; she was determined to torture, battling against the elements. Around her, his hands went, holding her close as she danced; the queen’s reign would not be long, as he placed her back upon the sheets and her legs sweetly across the broad of his shoulders. There he sought retribution; there he thrived, pounding into her frame as she cried out, spine arching. He drank every sound, every pant, his own passing through his lips. It was at her mercy, he begged for more, burying his face against her jaw, until his voice strangled, guttural moan forced from his lips until bliss took him as well.

  
His body laid atop of her, feeling the rise and fall of breast, his own just as frantic. He moved wet strands from her dewed face, lips touching softly. He looked upon the surrendered woman, her arms wrapping around the base of his neck, and within her grace he fell victim. His heart sang a different song, a song he wasn’t prepared for, and he just wished to feel her below his skin. He would hold onto the sweet escape, until he could no longer hold her there. 


	6. My Juliet

Rolling hills of tawny undertones peaked through silken crimson sheets; storm tossed hues sought to fight off sleep, only dreamily licking over his companion’s figure, and what bits were exposed to the chilly elements. Sifting below the sheets, he worked his arm around her middle, and pulled her welcomed heat into his cold frame. The dying flames left the room bitter, and he longed just for that bit of warmth before he stirred to carry out duties that he did not wish to dwell on. In this moment he wished to be lost within the curvature of her body, the way she felt under his palms, the way her chest rose and fell, with a subtle sigh each time she exhaled; Thranduil could not explain the sensation roaring through his body and mind, just to reach across his bed and another be nestled within arm’s reach. The only clear way to express the feeling in his guts was to gingerly press his lips against the nape of her neck to the roll of her shoulder, pinning her against him -- he needed to know that this was not a dream. 

 

The screams in his head diminished the short while she accompanied him in his quarters, like some sort of divine healing; she muffled out the images of war, of  **_her_ ** , and of any wrongdoings that ate away at his psyche. He was growing addicted to this feeling, and this bitter January morning reminded him that once the snows washed away, so would his spirits. He longed for winter to be never ending, for the snows to rise too high for anyone to come and go, and that they would remained locked within his walls for all of eternity. How selfish of him, yet, he did not care. He only thought of himself and the way he had been enlightened; there was a justification for every ill thought he had, to keep this bird locked within her cage, and to hang prettily here in Mirkwood. Yet, the dream would elude him, slip through his fingers, as she was a free as the wind; the mere thought of it struck his guts ill. His only recourse was to lean toward the bird within his bed, gingerly kissing the hem of her jaw; he did not wish for this dream to end…

 

The writhe of her body made the creature even more alluring; she too, sought warmth, rolling inwards to nestled her own crown against his breast with cues of fading sleep catching her breath, more so as the king shifted within the sheets, fingers gingerly toiling through curled locks. 

 

“Mhmm,” a purr fell from lips, her own fingers running along bare, scarred flesh, resting below his collarbone, “You wish to send me off to sleep again? Or keep me within this bed on this day?”

 

“If only,” grogged tones rumbling forth, crown descending upon the plush once more. “If I had my way, that is how we would spend our time, until the end of days…” 

 

“You are but a king, surely you could solidify this notion.” 

 

A kiss placed upon her crown was evidence enough it would not be so; his body slipped from her’s, leaving her frigid and bleak within the barren sheets. His presence enough was exhilarating, but his companionship had begun to be more than that. Stark, milky -- he had strode through the crisp room to feed the diminishing flames before tending to his hide; he placed her preferred robe upon his back, hemming in bits of charcoal and maroon. “I am but a king,” he looked toward the raven-haired wildling, pout predominantly etched into her beauty, “If it preparations for this eve were not complete, I would abandon my duties and be at your mercy. Alas, it is--”

 

“Mereth Nuin Giliath,” she interrupted, “You have not allowed me to forget.” Despite her every intentions of luring him back to her, the temptress rose from the shared hearth, striding toward the king as he dressed. Soft hands grasped upon the corners of his jaw, lowering his lips to her own, before tending to his tunic. 

 

“You will fall ill parading around in such a manner,” his words jest, rising his chin as she doted upon him.

 

“And then I would truly have to remain in bed with you tending to my every need.” 

 

“Mhmm.. yes. Then I would truly bend to your every whim,” his expanse reached for a lonley hanging robe, placing it upon her shoulders, “You will have me later this eve… We have stayed in bed longer than anticipated; there is still much to be done.” 

 

“Then I assume this will be the only moment I get to see you before such formalities?” she inquired, hues of beryl sought assurance within his own stare, seeing a small hint drop within them. A nod was given and a sigh passed from her lips. “I will see you this eve, then.”

 

“This eve,” he assured, taking hold of her figure, allowing one last embrace before he was to shed his humble demeanor for his kingly stance. “And you shall be by myside.”

His side… a notion she thought upon quite often, although it stirred a brow. Their union was evident, she knew of that, but for it to be a public affair amongst allies that had not graced this halls in such a long time? Perhaps that had been what unnerved the wom an -- she had been unable to hide it upon her face.  “Have you taken great thought into this? Elves of Rivendell and Lothlórien will--”

 

“I have taken much time to dwell on the matter,” his withdraw only accentuated his arrogance as a gleam took to smiling eyes. “Let them see what the Elvenking of Woodland Realm has within his grasp.”

 

♦♦♦

 

“My lady, please… we must get you--”

 

Plunging behind the surface, all words were muffled, going unheard; it was within her chambers she wished to drown herself, crippled under the weight of being the object he wished to prance around. Morivanië longed for the shores of home over this elven facade and festivities, especially in leiu of her exile unlifted. What would the Lady have to say about such treasonous affairs? She was indeed upon elven soil, within an elven kingdom upon Middle Earth… Her moment of peace was stolen, hands prying her from her watery chamber and to the surface once more.

 

“Lady Morivanië! Out!” tiny and furious, the small Silvan elf huffed, strands of muddled blonde shifting as heated as she had been. “We have little time before the feast.”

 

“Enough Padeth,” her words hissing, “Gwondes has not even arrived with the gown. We have time.”

 

“My Lady,” her pleas still laced with malice as she watched the tyrant removed herself from the heated waters. Immediately the younger wrapped the woman’s frame in fabric, ushering her toward the chair, pressing firmly on her shoulders to be seated. “Lord Thranduil has strick orders to have you ready bef-”

 

“His majesty will wait with baited breath. I will arrive when I am ready…” Morivanië’s own words growing softer, hushing under the heavy hand of this event. 

 

“That should be no way to talk,” the younger reprimanded her words, retrieving the come, and working upon the drenched spirals. “Lord Thranduil has allowed outsiders to roam into these woods for the first time in a long time. My mother could not remember the last time outside kin have been allowed into the wood. It is rumored that Lord Elladan and Elrohir will be attending with Lord Elrond!” The banter did not bring any emotion to the woman’s face, closing off and focusing upon small objects laid out for her upon the ornate dresser. Still, the excitement continued to pour from Padeth’s lips, listing off nobles and lineages that were so foreign to her ears.

 

“And rumor claims that Lady Galadriel might even attend… I have not seen what she looks like, but her beauty is claimed to be remarkable!” 

 

Paled, color draining at the mention; Morivanië found her grip upon the chair tighten, lifting herself in a swift retreat from the babbling babe. The cold air nipped at each bit of flesh that remained damp, pimpling flesh, and sending a shiver down her spine. It was much more relief than having to endure much more speech of the eve’s events; she wished to remain hauled within her room, never to leave on this accursed eve. Yet, as eyes danced upon the fleeting light, the ripe full moon was ascending into the sky. 

 

“My lady..” a hand gripped her elbow, tender this time. “Have I said-”

  
“I have not been around kin in such a long time,” her crown fell, exhaling heavily. “Nor have I done as promised. I fear that--”

 

“You should not fear,” the little one whispered, nudging the woman from the cold balcony, closing the doors to allow the warmth to wash over. “I do not want to pry, it is not my business… But, lest you forget, you dwell within Mirkwood. Lord Thranduil has exposed himself as well, but his eyes will not be on anyone else, but your beauty. We have seen it many times. Whatever fear you may hold in your heart, he will protect. Please, do not let your nerves rattle you; I do not like seeing you this way. Come, please? Allow me to finish…”

Compliance? As much as she could at that moment. Had she known of such plans, Morivanië would have sought Galadriel out prior to all of this… The fear still lingered that she would continue to suffer the consequences she allowed to bestow upon herself, but more so, for the face she created. After all this time, a mourning still held in her breast and caused her heart to ache. Had she compromised that by disregarding the terms of her exile? It was not as if she meant for this nor the wound that lay waste upon her flesh. No, she had merely been recovering… or postponing her walk of atonement out of petty afflictions. She sat within her silence, allowing the young to work effortlessly upon her appearance. 

 

Strands pulled and tucked, holding back the wild curls that were unruly. Upon her crown the circlet placed, ornate as it hung from the back in droves of glimmering silver and opaque jewels. “This is the most tame I have managed to get your hair,” a pleased tone rang, “It adheres to your crown and just lays beautifully upon it…”

 

“It is why I chose it,” Morivanië peered into the mirror. Hair still damp, but formed, swayed across her shoulders in divine spirals. The circlet place perfectly aligned, and the metal work matching that of the chaotic wood she inhabited. It was that precise moment the fiery soul entered the room, shimmering gown placed to hang.

 

“It has begun,” Gwondes half gulped, “I tried to sneak past the lords and ladies… and nearly avoided our lord. My lady…” her lips hung, until a smile formed, “Hurry, let’s dress you before we’re discovered; Lord Thranduil will surely have our heads if we allow you to be anymore late than we already are.”

 

Droves of silver clung to her frame, swaying with her haste as sheer portions with winding silver gems covered necessary portions to deem her as elegant as any other within this hall. It was a homage, in a way, to savage nature, as she dared to expose down her chest, her hip, and her back; yet, there was an air that was Mirkwood to it, as if she had ascended the throne and took it for herself. The long strands attached to the sheer material at the shoulder moved as she, keeping her head risen as she walked amongst noble and commoner. On this eve, they were all in the same; no class, no boundaries.

 

Across a sea of heads, storm-tossed hues searched, although his demeanor poised to be less desperate; his innards craving a glimpse of familiarity, so he too, would not wander these plains alone. Preparations underway and orders barked, his mind lost within the room he shared with her, his focus lost as the day drew on. It was a plague upon his mind and a fresh of cold air his lungs needed in order to function. Thranduil moved within the main hall, stopping only out of necessity to greet those familiar and foreign. 

 

“Mori-” words cut, fingers touching upon flesh, pulling the moving beacon from it’s destination. “Morivanië…” 

 

Eyes danced, despite the ill feeling within her gut, a bittersweet tang took her throat, pausing as she gazed within dark eyes. “Elrond…” words spoken as if they were natural. 

 

“It has been too long,” his touch retreated, gazing upon familiar, yet well lived features. “I did not know you have wandered back into the realms…”

 

“Only to assist with the mountain. A wound left me unable to travel,” Morivanië had been attempting to find her voice, regaining the regal purr to hide any and all insecurities. “Thranduil has been a kind host. Once I am fully healed, I set for Lothlórien, then back to the rolling shores.” 

 

“How generous of the Woodland King to open his halls to his kin once more. Perhaps the events outside his halls have enlightened him to join the realm once more. I pray this union and generosity stands firm; this may be a small specter of light, but there is much darkness.” Elrond pressed his glass to his lips, partaking in the small pleasantries offered. “All will be needed,” he mentioned, looking upon her, “The Lady spoke of briefly of your exile being lifted. It was… unjust. I hope all matters of the past can remain so.”

 

“As do I,” her words fleeting, eyes scanning for their host. “I long to see her… and I long for this world. There is nothing I want more than to be once again, home.”

 

“The last I saw of her, she was radiant; she is undeniably your daughter,” a small chuckle as he sighed. “Unruly as the winds from the mountains, much like her mother. Galadriel as ensured she has been kept well. You needn’t worry that.” 

“I trust she has,” her gaze lowering momentarily, releasing a breath. As her crown would rise, so did those eyes upon the Sindarian king, his own stare glued and unable to falter. Morivanië witnessed the subtle part of his lips, the way the candle light gleamed within his paled stare. It was instantaneous, as if all around them had been blacked out, and nonexistent. Thranduil found his hand upon the sheer material at her hip, moving in to claim his prize. 

 

“Thranduil,” Elrond expressed, nodding in agreement. It was the joining, Elrond witnessed, and the allure within their eyes. The Elvenking could not hide the smirk adorned his lips; he had captured his prey and kept it close. 

 

“Elrond,” the king’s head lowered, only allowing a small gaze to be given before his own returning to the star-kissed being; he took note to each way she moved and the glimmering coming from the fabrics, and how it made his heart move in a fashion he had not been use to. It was immediately that he felt at ease, offering a small kiss placed upon her cheek. “Law lîn síla sui Ithil,” he whispered to her, taking a small exhale. “Lord Elrond, if you will excuse us… We shall join in discussions come morning, yes?”

 

The hymn from his throat and the look upon his darkened features, Elrond could only offer a small and a nod. “Yes, we have much to discuss, Thranduil. Lady Morivanië,” his hand upon her own, pressing his lips against the back of her knuckles, “Welcome home.”

 

Feet moved quickly, forced by the palm within her back, guiding her along through the crowded hall, finding sanctity upon the isolated balcony, free from obligation, and free from prying eyes. It was there, he staked his claim, raising her chin and pressing his lips longingly against her own; a day's passing caused such longing, how would he survive her permanently departure? “I feared you would not come out from your room and that I would have had to fetch you,” a smile took to his lips, taking a step back to admire the craftsmanship of her attire, to the small detailing laced upon her frame. 

 

“If you would have come for me, you would not have left…” A small shiver ran through her, nipping along bare flesh; she sought to be close, breaching the gap between them, and allowing hands to rest upon his chest. Thranduil allowed her to tug at the cloak, tucking her away within him, and his arms offering her closure. “Why did you not tell me of the foreign entities pouring into your wood?”

 

“Lord Elrond and his sons arrived from the South, it was only customary to allow them into the wood. Had I not sent word to Lothlorien as well, it would have been my own head upon a pike. Have I done something to upset you?” a thick brow furrowed. 

 

“No,” she lied, taking a breath. “I was not expecting such a grand affair… grander, even, with kin far and wide. I have been out of touch, so I apologize -- I am overwhelmed by your hospitality.” 

 

“Do not fret,” he removed a few loose strands from her face, swaying the the cold air, “You will remain by my side.”

 

“My lord,” the balcony invaded, “It is time the festivities were underway. Shall I have them begin?”

 

A heave, forcing the woman clung to his chest to move with his actions, Thranduil merely nodded. “Begin what?” she questioned, seeking an answer upon his face.

 

“ Mereth Nuin Giliath begins with the elvenking embarking on a dance with, well… long ago, it was Ithilwen. It has been ages since it has begun properly, however, I had hoped you would accompany me?” Thranduil watched as her features twisted, his own becoming discouraged; was this too much? Asking her to replace his wife in a dance that he hadn’t partook in since her passing? Had he been mad. He felt her withdrawn, or so his instincts were telling him, but it was the small reassure she gave, taking his hand within hers.

 

“You ask too much of me,” she murmured, caressing each knuckle as she too, sighed, “You have given me an honor… How can I refuse?” It did not stop the butterflies from flittering within her guts, not ceasing remotely as his features lit up once more, and lead her back within the crowded hall. The low playing lutes and harps only began upon their entrance, Thranduil’s head rising high as the dignified leader he had been. It would be the moment the king would retreat, allowing the rest to join in to a dance that he had not partook, and almost customarily, those within his realm, had started upon the dance floor. 

 

They halted, gawking as he took the woman’s hand, and guiding her toward him. A wash of silence took the hall as the king had taken another into this ceremonious waltz, washed under the moon’s light, and for all to see.  Morivanië faltered momentarily until the strength of her partner consumed her, forcing her closer to his chest; she longed to look upon their feet, watch their every move, so she could anticipate his movements, but alas, she was with a noble, the king of this realm, and she needed to remain poised as if she had done this one hundred times. Her foot collided with his, trying to appear as if she hadn’t noticed; her features reddened at the slightest, embarrassed by her heathen ways. Thranduil could only smile upon her frustrations, adjusting his position upon her back and hip.

 

Feet left the ground, to her surprise, as he bore her weight upon his own. Had it not been for the glimmering gown that trailed behind, or the jewels upon her breast, they would have been discovered. She questioned how he held her with one arm, but he bore down upon opposite hip to keep her afloat, gliding her as if she were a mere doll across the dance floor. Her hand rested around his neck, clutching to his shoulder for dear life as he swirled her around; eyes bore into his own, still filled with astonishment, and only the king could offer her a methodical glance, pecking her cheek, before resting his chin against the side of her crown. “You’ve fallen out of touch,” he teased into her ear.

 

“If one would have warned me,” she quietly sneered back, locking eyes with her capture, “Perhaps there could have been some practice so I did not look like a buffoon.” Only a chuckle rose from the king, sighing with content.

 

“I did not want to spoil such a surprise,” he words genuine, “You would have fled if I asked you prior to. I wanted to enjoy one small notion, to parade you around a little. If this waltz was the way to express that, then I am sorry I have deceived you.” 

 

“You did not deceive me,” she expressed, feeling her feet be placed upon the ground. She followed his movements for the final steps, making every attempt to not step upon his toes. Her body lowered, under his guidance, carefully arching her spine; fabric, jewels, and locks all fell behind her, accentuating her frame and poise. Thranduil’s eyes softened, offering her a small smile as he started to bring her back from him; his movements paused, feeling a hand upon the hem of his jaw, guiding it within her soft kiss -- he had gotten the display he longed for, sinking within her tender embrace. 

 

Silence swarmed -- a momentary lapse that both had shared in, they had almost forgotten the place they had paraded around. Thranduil finally had expressed his newly blossomed feelings for the elf within his arms, not only to his people, but to the rest of the elven houses that stood within his home. The hall echoed with tamed cheer, clapping at the couple’s display, but more so, for the Elvenking that thawed his heart. “Before we’re swarmed,” he quietly told her, lifting her back upright to escort her (in a fashion all of his own) from the ballroom floor and within the bodies once more.

 

Prying hands, congratulations, and other words of endearment spread like a wild flame, kissing their bodies in ways the pair hadn’t felt in years. Within that small whirlwind, the pairing had found a standing amongst the rest, higher than they had anticipated. Thranduil would not allow the beam to escape his smile, leaning forth to press into her forehead once more. “Allow me to handle some nobles momentarily. I will not be long, I do promise you that…” 

 

“Do what you must, but do not linger for too long; I will seek you out.” Her warning did not fall upon deaf ears, as his digits lingered from her own, before slowly he fell from her, departing to play king. Immediately her hands found the ornate goblet, moving from prying eyes to sample upon her find in peace. Within the desolate hall she found herself, suckling upon the sweet elixir, bringing back the memory of their first kindling; the mere thought brought a smirk to her lips. 

 

“Lady  Morivanië, how good it is to see you stand,” words almost venomous, though upon the visage of the Marchwarden, the creature paled. 

 

“So she sent her best,” her words bit back, narrowing her stare.

“I am merely am an ambassador for my Lady. With events in place, it was unwise for travel, yet, and invitation into the Mirkwood could not be dismissed nor neglected. I am here, sparred during times that are hushed. However, I must relay a message,” Haldir moved with precision, closing his proximity against an old ally. “The Lady requests you immediately, seeing as you still hold breath. There was rumor you were within the Mirkwood. There are urgent matters that must be discussed. She begs that you arrive with haste, as long as you are well and able. Seeing you with Lord Thranduil, I’m deeming your wounds have healed.” The smile played upon his lips, sighing a bit, “But it is good to see you alive and standing. I shall inform the Lady, upon my return, that you will be arriving a few days behind me.  Tenna' ento lye omenta,  Morivanië.” His hand rested upon her shoulder, eyes looking toward the towering king penetrating the quiet hall, gandering at the pair. Haldir took his leave, bowing his head toward the ruler, exiting toward the loud dining hall. 

 

Thranduil’s hands ran along the stiffened spine, toward rigid shoulders, unresponsive to his touch. White knuckled, she had been, as the goblet within her hands suffered under her rule. “Morivanië,” her name rolling from his tongue, “Mori,” he whispered into her ear, hands reaching for her own to lower the goblet and ease her control. “Why are you troubled? What transpired?” he gestured in the direction the elf had exited. Thranduil spun the woman toward him. Her eyes averted and his alarm rose, twisting his own features in response. “Mori…” 

 

Her head shook, trying to wiggle from his grasp, but he had not allowed her, forcing her to remain his. “I must leave,” she told him, “I have not been honest.” She had broken free, finally, her glass finding it’s place upon the ground. 

 

“What are you saying? You’ve been here due to injury… I do not see how you have not been honest. What was said? Tell me.”

 

“I am to leave, immediately. Ride South to Lothlorien… I am exiled, Thranduil. I am forbidden to be within Elvish halls nor partake in Elvish traditions.”

 

“Exiled? Do you think I care if you are exiled or not? You have been in my care for your wound, and our agreement until spring still stands. So why is it you must go to Lothlorien immediately? To be punished? I would no sooner close my borders and lock you here, if you were to be punished for your deeds.”

 

“To be lifted… I was promised it was to be lifted for my involvement in the battle, to be reunited with… my daughter. She has been kept from me for too long and our reunion is upon us. I have been too scared to move from these halls just yet.”

 

“That is why, hm? Do you fear she will not be returned?”

 

“Of course… I have been deemed a servant of Melkor for my deeds within Dagorlad… Why would I be granted such a bounty for what I have been labeled as?”

 

“You are honorable,” he reminded her, stepping forth to take her face within his hands. “Your actions allowed for a small victory within dark times… You maneuver with grace and your actions are just. I have witness that with my own eyes. You will be given what is yours, I will ensure it.” He looked within her eyes, searching as the emotions washed through her, a side he had not bore witness too. His thumb rolled under the dewed hues. “I will not let you take this journey alone… I will pay my debt to you by riding south with my best.”

 

“I cannot allow you to do this… this is my battle-”

 

“Our battle. This is our battle now…” lips pressing firmly into hers, firmly wrapping his arms around her. “We will endure this, I promise. As long as I have you within my hearth, we will endure.”


	7. Who Will Break Your Fall

Evidence of their venture etched within the crisp snow below, the company marched within the ill wood; Thranduil had not allowed too much time to pass since the warning had been made toward the raven-haired elf. As much as he wished for this endeavor to be over, he could not fathom the stone within her guts. Silence was clear, she did not speak and when she did, it was little. Upon the tawny beast she rode, armor she wore upon Erebor mended, and the fur paldron covering the lower half of her face, Morivanië just wished to hide within the dark hide and never speak again. Thranduil made attempts, but her answers short until the silence washed back over. Frustrations evident upon his end; she ignited a flame within him, which allowed the men to catch him stealing a heated or longing glance toward her, barking orders to push past such afflictions. 

 

His stead came close to her own, the stallion rearing and bucking it’s head in dismay. Thranduil’s grip was fast, pulling upon the reigns of her horse, and slowing the beast. The rest of the company halted as the pair had. “Start camp,” he commanded, eyes intense upon the female whom refused to steal his glance. “We are less than a day away, you cannot keep me in the dark,” he expressed, guiding the horses away from the rest, before dismounting. Even as he reached for her, she was reluctant for his help. “Morivanië, do not distance me.”

 

“I am marching into my fate. How do you expect one to act as they walk to the hangman’s platform?” voice like iron into flesh, although her turmoil was written across her face, clear as day. It was then, Thranduil finally knew the gravity of the pit riling within her gut; he could not blame her for this exalted march toward a fate unknown. He had settled her upon the grounds, allowing both steads to meander from them. 

 

“I too, am walking into the fires. I am paying for my years of solitude and paying retribution. I assure you, our sins are not the same, but we walk the same path… Please,” hushed voice, quiet so his men would not hear such sweetness to his tone. Gloved palms pressed against her flushed cheeks, pulling her within him. “Do not allow this gap between us grow… I do not wish to endure this madness.” 

 

Gently her face rested upon the icy metal adorn his chest, exhaling; heated patterns drew upon the breastplate, her breath heated. Hand rose, patting his elbow as she slipped from him. “I need time,” her tone low, “I will join you shortly...Just allow me this.” Fingers slipped from his warmth, slowly as she retreated within the fleeting light, following the beast that carried her, running along his hide as she lead the pair away. 

 

Snow crushed below their stride, elf and beasts leaving behind a king ready to fall upon knee, as his own afflictions of this journey weighed heavily upon him. He allowed her this kindness, allowed her to wander from the safety of the party to endure her own trials. Defeated, he too, retreated, finding fires lit, and patrols beginning. A small miracle, as his words were not needed for such preparations. Thranduil could only find himself lost within the flames ignited, to pull the fur cloak further upon his shoulders, and settle as best he could. As much as Morivanië would feel the hopelessness within her, it was he too, that felt this sickness; Thranduil sought penance for his negligence and heartache, and he would bear the price if he were to reopen his walls and kingdom.  

 

“There,” she patted the strong muscle upon the stallion’s neck, guiding the pair toward the bit of water, flowing freely along ice and frost. Downward, the beasts had gone, happily gulping down enough to quench their thirst. The ride through the wood long, winding. Thranduil’s insistence to remain within the wood than the open road was for safety and safety alone; not a strategy she had agreed with, but one she would follow. Perhaps mercy was his gain, ensuring the ride longer than anticipated, giving her time to mend before she were to come undone. This was a sweet solitude, alone within her head, and to ensure her actions just, or so she repeated to herself over and over again. This was madness, all of this, but finally it had come to a head and she would be reunited… 

 

Upon the stone she sat, allowing the pair to rummage about. Winter upon them, within their midsts they had traveled and she knew within a short time, this all would thaw. To leave the comforts of his halls and to return to the wilds -- that was all longing and one that would ruin her. Despite her best intentions, the king had affixed himself to her, forcing his hand and whim upon her; she would not fight it, accepting his devotion, a devotion she would miss gravely. Within her head she drew upon the fantasy of returning to and fro, rekindling each time with the Mirkwood King. How sweet each reunion would be… 

 

The nerved shunk, whinny ripping through the air; the onslaught quick, rendering a beloved beast helpless, falling upon the ground in a cascade of it’s own force. And it was the white creature that had fled, arrow upon its rear, running in a direction unknown. Morivanië flung herself from her position, bow drawn in defense. It ripped through the air, nearly slicing through her armored pelt. Noticeable features upon the ornate shaft, beryl hues widening -- orcs. There was no time to mourn the beast that carried her thus far, finding her feet taking her back to the sanctity her king established. Her haste forcing alarm, causing golden plated guard to swirl within direction. Shrieks of guard and monsters alike pierced the air; all whom remained relaxed, rigid, blades and bows drawn. 

 

“Have you-” Thranduil’s blade drawn, looking down upon the panting beauty.

 

“My steed…” she huffed, “Slaughtered… your’s… elsewhere. I did not hear their approach…”

 

The darkness began to settle, the cries continuing. It was not before long the enemy danced within their encampment. The king’s blade severing limb from body, protecting her above else. Morivanië found her own movements matching his own, sending an arrow into the throat of another. Thranduil’s commands to fall back ripped through the night air.  “They will surround us!” she called out, rendering damage and dodging blows. “We must breach the forest’s edge, Thranduil!”

 

“Fall back to the outskirts! Mount your steeds!” he called out. He grasped her wrist, pulling her along. Upon an ivory mount he forced her atop, her own skill sending hellfire toward the blackened beasts. Snarling grunts closing upon their location, striking fear into the company’s heart. “Quickly,” he he told her, foot upon the stirrup, hoisting himself against her back, pulling the reins to escape. The beast could not take off fast enough, dodging throughout fallen trunks, swerving around those still standing. The opening to this wood near, Thranduil fully aware of his surroundings; he feared, however, they had encountered a lost troop, making it’s way back to Dhol Guldur...or perhaps he miscalculated, as they were within the enemy’s territory; how foolish he had been, paying for mistake, if infact, it were the later. He admired her skill and strength, turning to guard their backs as he gotten them into the clearing. His men strung through disarray, slaughtering all that escaped the wood; it was their king’s arrival that brought order, and all would rally to his side.  “To the South! With haste!” he barked, turning his men toward the Lady’s kingdom. 

 

“They will not cease until we are dead,” the she-elf reminded him, her stance awkward upon his front, facing into him. Her bow still drawn, sending another arrow into a fiendish foe. The snarling mess and barks only confirmed the few wargs within the party, but the wander orcs number continued to grow with each black figure removing themselves from the forest and upon the darkened road.

 

“If we continue at this pace, we may just make it to the borders.”

 

“At what cost?” she argued, “Our horses will exhaust…”

 

“They will not,” he barked back, looking back at their position. The hounds of hell were closing in, he could not keep this pace steady. “My miscalculation has caused great peril,” he admitted, heels digging into the beast, driving it forward. “Lothlorien is within our grasp…”

 

Morivanië could do nothing, but remain helpless. Her quiver barren, heart within her throat, all the woman could do was turn before him and brace for the danger to swarm them. Her blade drawn, opposite of his own drawn blade, they pair prepared for what would swallow them if they did not make it. She did not wish this, her mind swelling with the pressure of making it to their destination. With such drive a focus, blinded to the world, it had torn the king from her, pain crying out as his voice pierced the night sky. Thranduil’s leg grasped by gnarled teeth, attempting to take him from the horse’s back, in which it had succeeded. “Thranduil!” she cried out, turning the horse back into the danger. Her blade met the rider upon the creature’s back, launching from her own stallion to come to his aid.

 

The king laid upon the ground, attempting to stand with blade swinging wildly. He stumbled, but his mark had been made; blood of crimson and black spreading across the wintery terrain. His men returning, surrendering themselves into this darkened battle, taking the enemy on blindly. Morivanië landed upon earth, running toward the fallen royal. “Thranduil,” she found herself beneath his span, taking on the weight of the armored foe. Her attempts to drag him before they fell victim, was enough to drain her. “Bear your weight into me,” she told him, his grunts audible as he attempted to listen and react. His lame stance, dragging the weakened appendage behind him as his blade warded off the few souls to draw near. 

 

“Call out,” she cried to one of those remaining, “Your horn!” The elf fumbled for the object, pressing it firmly to his lips. The first sound pathetic, wavering and putting as he attempted to catch his breath. It was the gust of wind that caught the instrument, crying out within the night sky. It was a desperate act, hope of those within the Lady’s halls would hear the cry upon the plains.

 

Thranduil managed to the beast, under the strength of the woman whom guided him. Her warmth departing for his side, allowing him to ease his burden against it. It was not until her hide thrusted hard against his own, blocking a blow from the onslaught of flying arrows, Thranduil found his heart within his throat. She cried, arrow colliding into her side and leg. She pressed the king back, fumbling to rip the bladed heads from her flesh. The shadowed creature forced it’s way within their proximity; his arms grasped her, shoving the elf-queen upon the ground. The harrowing sound, the pained grunt from his lips as blade collided with his belly; Thranduil had finally repaid the price of blood with his own spilled.

 

“No!!” she screamed, scrambling for the blade to severe the hands that laid waste to a beloved soul, following by the same fate it bestowed upon him; her blade drove hard within the creature’s gut, her onslaught continuing by taking out another that closed within their hollow. The paid nipped, searing across his middled, until the weight could not be bore upon the weakened leg; Thranduil buckled, falling upon bended knee, his color quickly draining. A sense of hopelessness struck the chords of her heart, her vision blurring as it became hot. Quickly she fell to his side, ridding herself of the leather gloves, exposing herself to the elements. “No, no, no,” she cried pitifully, leaning him back into the snow, “Do not fade from me...we are not meant to end here.” 

 

His paled hues shown brightly under the waning moon, finding what beauty within this dark night. His hand rested upon his wound and the other upon her forearm. His lips spread wide, wincing as the wound grew angry, causing a pant. “Go,” his last noble effort, sending her off to safety so she may carry on. If this was truly his time, he felt as if this were just.

 

“I will not forsaken you,” she tore upon her hilt, removing the dagger from her side. The flesh tore along her palm, allowing her own blood to flow freely. She combatted his hand away from the oozing wound, mixing her own within his flesh. The heat from her hands was welcoming, almost as if she had ignited the flesh to mend. His mouth ajar, trying to fight back what wanted to bellow out. “We will make it…” she whispered. Although it had been bleak -- what little remained of their troop fought hard, but most fallen within the attack. Morivanië took a look around her, panic trying not to set in. She focused her energy into her palm, feeling her energy drain with what strength she pulled upon. Just as hope had faded, the calls of the March Wardens spread across the battlefield in a hellfire of arrows, pressing the enemy back. “Just hold strong,” she whispered to him, her own flesh draining to ensure his soul would remain his. “You cannot leave me, not now..”

 

She kissed the fingers that stroked upon her cheek, ivory toying upon her lower lip as she refrained to express more emotion; she could not help the hot tears that rolled from her cheeks, dripping down below her. Hues of green closed, finding her core to press more magic until her body would break. It had taken those of Lothlorien to pull the war torn queen from the fallen king, her sounds protesting despite her weakness. “No!” she squeaked, wriggling within their grasp. “Thra-” her bucked, “Thranduil! No! Release me! Thranduil!” 


	8. You Won't Be Mine

 

_ “Nana!” the little voice cried out, reaching for her. Morivanië gripped hold of the tiny being, bringing her into her arms, and holding her close. A smile tore at her lips, nuzzling into the dark strands the child had stolen from her. If not for her sire, Morivanië would had deemed this small being her own, but as she stared into the icy blues, she knew she was the perfect mix of the pair. The sensation upon her spine cause her skin to pimple, and soft kisses upon her neck; Finrod leaned forth, allowing his affections to be turned toward the babe in his lover’s arms.  _

 

_ “I do not wish to leave,” he murmured softly, tucking a wild curl behind the child’s small ear.  _

 

_ “I do not wish for you to go,” the woman spoke, letting a hand reach out to touch his strong jaw. Her smile faded, heaving a sigh. “Sauron threatens us all -- you’ve been called. That is an honor above all.”  _

 

_ “It would honor me most, if you would be my queen before I leave this place…”  _

 

_ Searching, she found the deepest regret within those cold hues. The child had been placed upon the ground, though she did not wander far, clutching upon her leg. Morivanië stepped forward, letting an arm drape around his shoulder. “You will return to me, and then we shall walk that path together.” _

 

_ “Galadriel’s insistence that we wait has burdened me,” he admitted, raising her chin to meet his gaze, “Wait for me.” _

 

_ “Always,” she leaned, pressing firmly against this kiss, until his name drew him back. The Elvenking regretfully allowed his hands to slip from tender hips, bending at the knee to kiss the crown of his heir, and take to the horse that waited him. The sting took her eyes, and idle hands groped for the child, watching as the sun swallowed him whole.  _

 

Pounding upon the oaken door, clawing like a maddened beast, attempting to rid itself from the cage it had been set within.There was no cell waiting, but the elegant room she once harbored. Shackled hands continued to pound tirelessly into the barred door, angered cries draining from her lips of her release. Desperate as the days grew on, his fate unwavering from her mind and her heart ill. The paled, drained expression as she watched the men lift his limp frame from the ground, how those eyes pierced within her soul; Morivanië could not set herself free, her emotions taking hold of every whim and notion. She longed to know his fate, for her heart could not carry this burden no longer. With each pound and cry, her breakdown inevitable, slipping down the length, until she fell into a heap upon the heavy door. His name upon his lips, begging for the strength to cross this ocean to just see his face once more. 

 

Glacier hues dulled, though they would hold life. Had it not been for the witchcraft of the other, perhaps he would not hold breath, but alas,  he did. Thranduil had not known how many days stood between them, as he dove in and out of slumber whilst the wounds would mend. It was on this day, his heart panged, feeling the gravity of their separation tear into his soul. A breath hitched, torso attempting to move under the weight of the heavy, angry wound at his guts; digits pressed against the sealed wound, sewn shut by some elegant grace within these halls, crusted, yet still oozing.He did not care as it sang within his bones, quivering him at the joints. It had taken much internal build up, maneuvering himself until he was upright, crying out softly to himself. There had been a bitter hallelujah as he swung his hips  and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed, that he could rejoice. It was then and only then, he noted at the support surrounding the wounded join; it too, had been properly sealed and wrapped. Thranduil praised her sweet name for his survival,but more so longed for her. All else did not matter, not even his mortal wounds.

 

Collision upon furniture, the madness that ensued within the chambers only scattered what maidens had flocked to help.The elvenking stirred within his chambers, pulling ivory robes upon his simple clothes, giving him a more distinguished look to even leave the sancitity of his chambers. 

 

“My lord, I cannot allow you to-” she cried out, attempting to block the doorway. The king fumbled, grasping what he could, and limping upon his lamed leg. “Your wounds!” she argued as he closed in, strands of hanging within his paled complexion. There he stood, hovering over the hand maiden, leaning his weight into his arms as he took the weight off of what ailed him. 

 

“Move,” were the only words he would speak to her and when she hadn’t obeyed, his hand grasped her shoulder, and casted her aside. Madness loomed as the beast of the Mirkwood continued his onslaught, wishing to seek out the answers he desired. With each pained step, he was closer to his goal.

 

“I feel as if the actions solidified my reasoning,” calculated words dripped from the White Lady’s lips, fingers pressing the elegant cup to her lips. “There was much reason and doubt which lead to such events, my dear Elrond. I could not allow it to happen.”

 

“They were orders, Galadriel. We are speaking of actions of years passed. Truly, if she had wished to walk in her mother’s footsteps, Morivanië would have done so by now with the rise of darkness. Yet, she has remained true and has not fallen. She is an honorable woman,” the dark haired elder sighed, placing his own goblet upon the table. “We cannot condemn her for the actions of her parentage. I agree there is a certain dark quality with the magics she possesses, but that is not the gift she asked for.  Take that into consideration.”

 

“She,” snarled words, hissing with agony dripped like venom from the broken king’s lips, “has completed what she was asked to do.”

 

“Thranduil!” Galadriel immediately rose from her seat, steps taken to aid his broken hide, but it had not been allowed. There, the trio witnessed as the reclused tyrant made his way to the empty seat, allowing his body to be thrown into it. Sweet relief, he thought, exhaling loudly. He felt his middle -- damp, but it had been worth it. He would not miss the meeting of her fate, in which his voice would be heard. “You should not be up. Rest is what you need.”

 

“I will not sit idly when the task at hand is in regards to a cherished someone.”

 

“Your council is not needed, Thranduil. Your recovery is the utmost concern…”

 

“No,” the silent ruler by the revered woman’s side finally spoke. Celeborn drew a breath, “Stubborn arrogance has lead him from his recovery. He shall not be banished, as he made it all this way. Galadriel, let us continue… Thranduil is another that bore witness to the matter at hand.” Her beloved words struck hard, yet she did not waver. A mere nod had been given and fingers rested upon her lips as she settled back upon her throne. “Elrond’s words bear a heavy truth. If she were to turn, the darkness spewing from the cesspools would have taken her by now. I harbor no fear within my heart for her.”

 

“You must take into consideration she was Finrod’s,” Galadriel released a burdened breath, “There were precautions placed so she nor his child would rise to the throne in his absence. The misdeeds of Bôr’s wife were still fresh; we did not know the influence it had upon her only daughter. When her deeds of war had come home with her, there was a kingdom to protect and my kin. If another under Melkor’s rule had dwelled freely… I do not know the devastating effects it would  have upon Middle Earth.”

 

Thranduil, stone faced, inhaled deeply. The pieces had fallen and it was Finrod, that plagued Morivanië’s heart; it had been information unbeknowst to him, but evidence enough for Galadriel to protect her own. Still, the slander of her name did rile something within him. “She poses no danger,” he was gruff, leaning back within the chair to take the pressure off of his gut. “Her words swayed my decision within the battle, all for a child promised back to her. She had taken a blade through her for my defense, when I did not ask her to swear such a loyalty. Her character slandered, her actions in a war past still held over her head. She has endured your abuse all for a fear she would be like the kin that bore her and she has proved you all wrong…”

 

“I must side with Thranduil, my Lady,” Elrond’s dark stare reached the icy stare of the Queen of Lothlorien, whom sat silently as she sorted through her thoughts. “Morivanië and her forces will be needed. Her loyalty proved upon the mountain and to Mirkwood’s preservation.”

 

_ You will not have my daughter!” the riptides of wails and snarls came from the wildling, thrusting upon the arms of the golden plated guard, withholding the beast from the welp it desperately clawed for. She would be not be subdued, she would not wield.  _

 

_ “She is my niece… and I, her guardian from here on.”  _

 

_ Lips parted at such words, brows warping in anguish, then to rage; Morivanië struggled, fighting against the arms that held her back, witnessing the ivory queen ascend from her throne to meet her stance. Cerulean glints wet, pale lips parted as the expression grew concerned. Galadriel felt the heat and sting on her lower lid, raising her arm toward the gates -- she would not have this within her home. “A woman dancing amongst death and flame, shall not bear such holdings within my halls, nor in the kingdoms of elves. Morivanië, daughter of Bôr of Doriath, lover of Finrod,” the magnificence in her voice broke upon a brother’s name, lips quivering momentarily until she regained her regal appearance, “You are sentenced to exile. Your darkness shall never again, plague these lands.” _

 

_ Wide were those intense hues of blues and greens, daring to test the boundaries between the pair. Dark, twisting, her features matched her might as she continued to fight and spew cursed words in her direction. “The gates of Valinor will be no place for you -- my wrath will send you far from these lands.” _

 

_ “Remove her,” chin held high, Galadriel watched as the bucking she-elf was torn down the steps. A hand was all that was needed to stop the dark haired babe that screamed for her mother, and her mother cried back until the silence took the halls of  _ _ Lothlórien _ _. The child caved, sobbing into the hip of the ivory queen, and her milky hands ran through the wild locks, soothing the damage that had been done. “You are safe here, my sweet Doliel. She has fallen from the light; I shall not let that happen to you.” _

 

Locks turned, thunking as they rested back within their holding. The bar that held the door steady lifted and the door slowly crept open. Within the contents of the elaborate holdings sat the heap upon the ground. “Lady Morivanië?” the voice questioned, moving toward the sunken woman. The guards grip tender, pulling the woman from where she lay, in a heap of her own turmoil. “Come, it is time.” 

 

Each step heavier than the last; she adhered to each command with shackled hands and sore flesh from where the damage had been done by the lone war party. “Does he live?” she asked the lonely guard, but to her dismay, no answer. “I beg of you, just one answer…”

 

“I cannot do that my lady, I have strict orders to deliver you to Lady Galadriel. Come,” he pressed her shoulder in the direction she needed to go, only pausing before the entrance to the hall. Words echoed off of it’s expense, though muffled. She was halted, pressed against the wall like some war rat ready for the executioner’s block. A waivered breath had been taken in and exhaled; her frame quivered in nerves and anticipation, waiting as the guard stood within the opening. His orders clear as his head nodded, waving the broken being toward him. 

 

“Those are no longer necessary,” Celeborn argued, but waved off by the woman whom ruled him. However, her chains remained, further incriminating the renegade elf. It was her eyes that caught the broken king, flushing immediately with heartache and longing. The heat stung her brilliant hues, blurring her vision as she mouthed his name. And it was he who took in  her tear stained lashes and her broken will, furrowing his brow as he made an attempt to stand. 

 

“Thranduil,” Galadriel pressed upon his shoulder, making him sit as she rounded toward the chained woman. Her hands took the dark-haired woman’s wrists, undoing the bindings. No words came from her lips, moving around her frame toward the wounded. His hands reached for her middle and her hands mused through silver-blonde strands before she had fallen upon bended knee, taking his hands within her’s. 

 

“I thought I had lost you,” fear struck her vocals, his thumb rolling to wipe away the heated tears that wished to explode and flow. His only source of comfort was his lips upon her forehead, holding her face.

 

“I hold breath, thanks to your efforts… if not for you, I surely would have said my final goodbyes.” He could not keep his hands from her own and the other on the back of her crown, keeping her near. All eyes had not mattered; he had what he desired the most. 

 

“Morivanië…” Galadriel called once more. She had finally caught the her wrath, and despite the way her heart fluttered within her chest, the anger boiled within her features.

 

“Like an animal,” she snapped, her voice cracking softly as she choked back the hell that wanted to be unleashed, “Chained. Forgotten…. My pleas and cries unheard… All I wished was word of his survival, that I had not failed. You could not even grant me that…”

 

“Your wounds held poison… You were chained to your bed while my healers worked to ease you into a slumber, to allow the antidotes work properly without your refusal to rest. They were left on for safety, but I see where I am at fault… Morivanië,” she sighed, “After much deliberation, your exile has been henceforth lifted and you and your kin will be once again, allowed to dwell within elven lands.”

 

“I do not care,” she spat, feeling Thranduil grip her hand to ease her tension. “My daughter… I want Doliel. As promised.”

 

“Morivanië, we must speak… she…” her eyes glimmered, brows furrowing, “She has been sent to Valinor…” 

 

Features immediately fell; each and every ounce of her soul crumbled, growing limp as she settled further into the ground, her hands slipping from the gentle touch that tried to keep her amongst them. “You…” she breathed, her brows arching in fury and agony, “I have been deceived.”

 

“You… have not,” her words strong, attempting to sound just. “The darkness within these lands, I could not allow her to be in such peril… she is safe. Word had been sent for her to join her kin within Nargothrond.  I could not allow her to be in danger; the storms of war are brewing and we all will be consumed, I-”

 

“Who sent for her? Why could you not speak of this freely? Did you think I would not obey if I knew the truth? Am I not a puppet still strung up in this marvelous scheme? Who… who has sent for her that you have robbed me of what I’ve longed for?”

 

Lips shifted, rolling under ivory; such poise was being tested and the Lady of Lothlorien now stood in Morivanië’s mercy. “Finrod,” she was firm.

 

“Dead!” she snapped, rising to as two opposing forces met. “Struck down upon Tol-in-Gaurhoth by Sauron’s ravenous wolves… He is dead.”

 

“He…” she stared within the woman’s eyes, “Has been granted life again with Valinor… He sent for both of you, but only one traveled… I have lost my daughter as well, and Elrond his wife. Celebrían went with her on that day and it is a day I do not regret… Our daughters live on, Morivanië. I have gathered passage for you, so you may reunite and be with her.”

 

“You… expect me to leave?” she questioned. “The matter at hand is the deceit and promises that have not been upheld… Finrod lives and yet, you have kept that to yourself as well. Have you no heart? Or does the resentment still steele your heart? What was it that frightened you? That I could have ascended the throne along side him and plague my bloodrite all throughout your kin? Was that it? You have brought so much pain and agony to my soul, and yet, you stand there with my still beating heart within  your hands will I continue to falter under it’s weight…”

 

“My intentions were not to hurt you… He knew of your deeds within battle, and still… he did not call for you. I cannot change the past, but I am offering you a future. Please, Morivanië…”

 

“I would rather remained under you exile than suffer through this any longer…”

 

The pair stood, looking upon Galadriel and the feiry, broken woman attempting to keep her stance. Elrond and Celeborn had left the pair, and soon Galadriel felt she should reunite with them. “I did what was must to ensure her safety, and now I offer it to you…”

 

“I do not want your pity,” she spat, eyes glaring toward her.

 

“It is not pity, but out of love. I have wronged you and I have ensured your daughter is safe..” her hands touched her cheeks,  holding her face still even as she turned away from her.  “You were and still are a sister to me… I will go to great lengths to ensure your future is secure. Do not forget that.” Fingertips rolled, releasing as she took her leave. Morivanië felt her knees weak, crumbling where she stood, hands covering her face, doubling over in agony. The events unfolded for the broken king had been a mouthful to swallow, but still, even in his weakened state, someone managed to remove himself from his chair (with great difficulty) and take his place beside her. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close into his arms. There were no words he could utter to heal how she felt, but as she clung to him, he knew he had offered her a lifeline. 

 

♦♦♦

 

“You are not fit for travel,” solemn words rolled from her tongue, but it had not stopped as he rose from the bed, leaving her within it. “I insist we stay longer…”

 

“No,” he waved her off, limping toward his garments, working to place them upon his shoulders and adorn himself in just enough warmth for the ride home. “I have concluded what business I have within these halls… to stay longer would only drive both us into a crazed madness.” Yet, Morivanië could not deny Thranduil’s words -- he spoke so many truths. She did not leave this room, not since the news of her only child set upon the world, sent to an old place, to dance alongside of an old beloved. What pained her further was news of his survival and his disregard for what love and agony that was within her heart, still mourning his death. If not for the Elvenking at this precise moment, she did not know how she would have survived. 

 

It was his influence that pulled her from the sheets, moving to grab the large fur paldron, placing it upon his shoulders. “I do not wish for you to aggravate your wounds; I worry-”

 

“Enough,” he sighed, gripping upon her face once more. Indeed, his pain writhed upon his features, but the days that had passed with rigorous healing, he would only hope that the mend was enough to guide him the few days journey home so he would rest within his own bed; he could not wash the acid from his throat nor guts, unable to cope with the atmosphere. “We have an escort and a wagon. I will not be riding. Please, the sooner we are from these halls, we will be free from this agony.”

 

Her eyes lowered, slowly nodding; her hands rested upon the bend of his wrists, kissing his fingers as she removed them. It was then she guided him toward the lone chair, making him settle. “Let me see what they have done, before we go,” a small plea, as she settled upon bended knee. He was reluctant, but agreed. Cold fingers caused his flesh to jump as she pried away the loose small clothes upon his chest, untucking them from the leather breeches. The wound still sown, scabbing along the the gash, yet still irritated. It had been a decent job for the mere eight moons the pair had spent here, but still her worried expression did not leave her. Thranduil watched as she carefully draped the loose fabric over it, moving to the wounded leg, and pulling the tightness of the hide over the makeshift brace. His constant movement still left the wound angry, he knew this, and it was her stern look that left him blank. She removed herself, pulling the small dagger from the heap of equipment yet to be strapped to her back, moving back.

 

“Mori, no,” he started to tuck his shirt, waving her off. She did not cease, falling back into place. The King tried to stand, to maneuver over her to escape, but she had not allowed him; back within his seat he had been placed. His brows fussing, watching her prick a finger, placing the beading upon his flesh. Word spoken,yet gone unheard; he watched as she worked whatever heinous magic the other’s had feared, yet it was magic that had initially saved his hide. As he exhaled, he felt the same fire upon his leg as the night she hovered over him, almost as if she had taken the fires upon her hands and sealed the wound shut. He winced, though the pain was temporary. Toes wiggled -- a vast improvement, relief more evident than before. “Guren glassui,” he whispered.

 

“It will hold. I still worry about your belly… I have to place my faith in the healers for now,” she stood, wiping the digit as she crossed the room. It was her own equipment she strapped to her back, placing the thick furs across her shoulders. She would retrieve his boots, moving to place the first upon the good foot, and the other she sliced the leather (to his dismay), offering room for the splint. 

 

“My lords,” the door moved, armor cladded March Warden upon their room. “The caravan has been prepared. We leave when you see fit.” Haldir bowed his head, respectfully, eyes upon the rebel queen, now freed of her banishment.

 

“Which path will your men take us?” she inquired as she helped the lord stand, tucking the rest of his small clothes into his breeches, and buttoning his tunic, stopping at his collar bone. “Too tight?” she asked, Thranduil shaking his head as he wrapped his arm across her shoulder for support. 

 

“We ride along the Anduin. My scouts have seen many orcs festering near Dhol Guldur. We suspect they are survivors from the battle. We will take you to the Forest Road -- Lady Galadriel has sent word to your captain to have a force waiting, given our King’s condition.”

 

“I cannot thank you enough, Haldir,” she whispered, despite a rough beginning within Mirkwood, his honorable nature still shone through.

 

“We have seen much together, my lady. It is all I can offer. I will not be accompanying you upon this journey, but I offer you my brothers instead. I already have a party to rendezvous -- they have secured the path ahead. Safe travels.” Golden crown fell, armor clanking as he retreated.

 

“Such arrogance,” he hissed lowly. “I despise the elves of-”

  
“He is honorable,” she reminded him, patting his chest, “Do not curse these elves, in spite of their leader. Come now, home calls you, and the ride will be cold and long.” 


	9. It's Getting Dark And I'm Lost In The Woods

The sun would rise upon the frozen wastelands along the riverbed; it had seemed like an eternity, being back within these woods, and it was a relished welcome home. Golden guard awaited upon the forest road, welcoming of the return of their lord, unknown of the wounds adorn his hide. It was only the worry of the woman beside the broken lord, that would carry that burden. Though the trek not long at all, it had been arduous upon his soul. Thranduil sat, buckled within furs upon the carriage seat, his body resting against the dark woman as he exhaled; features paled, pain spreading through his guts from his afflictions. There had been a clutched hand upon her leg, hidden under cloak, trying to find some sort of stability.  Morivanië had been that source of comfort, his chin resting upon her shoulder, slumping into a position to be more comfortable. This had been a harrowing journey and as the caravan had been handed off to the proper guard, it was then his people knew their king’s crown had broken and his current state was not as regal as they had known him to be.

 

The bed held his broken frame, the groans escaping from his lips. There was little relief; handmaidens bustled, trying to fuss within the chambers. “Enough,” she barked upon his behalf, forcing their hands to retreat from the room. The basin of hot water taken from one of their hands, Morivanië retreated back to the King’s side, settling down upon the edge. “I expressed my concerns that would should have stayed,” she breathed, brows rustled as she wrung the cloth. It has festered…”

 

“I wished to be within my own bed,” perhaps this was his way of trying to make light of the situation, despite the way he felt. “I did not wish to see that look upon your face any longer…” his hand found her thigh once more, her head lowering slightly to stare upon the waters.

 

“At what expense?” she questioned, finally looking within his tired, gray hues. “Your health?” She was drawn to refocus and despite the events that unfolded, her mind was able to be pulled toward his heal more than the troubled thoughts within her head. The tunic had been pulled from his hilt, prying the fabric from the wound; he protested, hissing even, gripping at her flesh. She toyed with her lip only to sigh heavily at the condition. Yes, it had been sealed, but his insistence to travel forced lack of proper care. Her energy spent on maintenance, keeping him together, nearly exhausted; circles below her eyes predominant. Her thumb ran along the ruined flesh, watching him yip; he too had been spent, the scarring matching from his chest to his face, unable to keep the mask on. 

 

The warm clothe ran across his belly, washing away the build up. “Can you roll onto your side?” Little compliance, but he managed. Again, the heat hit the matching wound, smaller, though; the blade hadn’t gone all the way through, but looking upon it, if she hadn’t been by his side, he surely would not be upon this earth. A fear washed over her, as if that would had been reality. Morivanië held her breath for a moment as she left his side. “I have to remove the stitching before it becomes more aggravated than it already is. I have to reopen the surface, re-clean, and pray that the herbs will help ease it.” 

 

“Do what you must,” he huffed, hiding his mangled face into plush and silks of his sheets. He listened as she maneuvered around the bed. Her voice carried out that a distant melody, soothing, even as she gave orders to those lingering outside. Thranduil drew in a deep breath, drawing patterns within the sheets as he awaited his trial. To and fro, she walked, slight hitch from the wound still healing within her leg. Herbs, mortar and pestle, small blade, and a device archaic, in which he knew was to pull the string from his tender flesh. There may had been a muffled moan in anticipation, but he knew it was what had to be done in order to spare him anymore agony. 

 

She settled, mashing what ingredients before she moved upon her knees to his backside. She held his flesh taunt, removing the string. He bellowed lowly, further pressing his face into his bedside, gripping what patterns he had drawn. There was a release once she had finished, setting the bloodied string aside. She reached over him, taking the knife to drag along the wound, forcing blood to rush from the reopened flesh. Morivanië quickly wiped at it, pressing the herbs into the wound. The worst had yet to come, as she rounded the bedside, and he had prepared himself for the worst. His hand rested upon her wrist, gripping momentarily “It has to be done,” she kissed his crown, “Are you ready?” He didn’t wish to answer, just wanted to stay in this moment for a few seconds longer. 

 

This one red, angry; she felt almost bad to even mess with the wound. She hesitated, gripping the sides once she built herself up enough to, clipping and pulling the string as quickly and carefully as she could. The noises hissing from him, she pitied him, only trying to ensure this moment would pass swiftly. “Hold still,” she begged as he writhed lightly. The string removed, the wound sliced to allow the blood to flow. This time she had allowed it to ooze, setting the rag below to catch the spillage. She pressed either side, forcing a hand to help purge the wound. She watched him huff, coo softly as he tried to settle from the washing pain. Suffocated under the greens, she ensured it would not return to the state it had been in. “You’ll have to lean up,” she grabbed his arms, easing him into it as he leaned forward. Clothe taken from the bedside, wrapping around his middle. It had been taunt, and tied properly, before laying him back down. “Rest,” she kissed his forehead, washing her hands clean of his blood, before running her hand along the scarred side. “I’ll be here when you wake”

 

The sun had rose and fallen, and it was by his side she stayed. He had offered a way out of her mind, to pull from this world, and ignore the heartache, but it did not truly leave her. The thought of her child gone from this plain and to an impossible location, she did not even know who she could reach her. As Thranduil slept, she sat hunched over his desk, words scribbled upon parchment, but there had lacked coherence. How… how could she even begin the words to send a fallen love, in hopes he would understand, and allow her to take back her child? Both parents had failed her; a mother casted aside and exiled, while her father played dead within the old world. Morivanië’s hands tore upon the paper, casting it aside like the rest. 

 

She peered behind her; Thranduil lay silent, as she forced him tea to slip him into slumber and allow his body a chance to stave off anymore damage. His people did miss their king, but his health had taken the utmost priority. All decisions fell to the captain of his guard, even though she was pushed for her own weight upon matters. Morivanië sought to remain out of his affairs, despite their position together. 

 

The quill sunk back within the ink and a fresh piece of parchment drawn. Her eyes had closed momentarily, exhaling as she drew upon the words she had written numerous times. The ink had flown, heartfelt words placed upon them, and signed before she could take them back. The wax heated and stamped upon the two halves, she quickly took it to the bird already procured for this event. With it tied upon its leg, she sent it upon the world with baited breath. 

 

♦♦♦

  
  


Silence, unsteady like a storm rolling in; the rumbling not reaching ears, but the signs of flashing cracks of thunder in the distance only a warning of what to come. Bedridden, he was, but he saw the storm in the silent being that tended to his every whim. Without fault, she carried careful execution of what he needed, the healing of his wound, but the distance within her eyes stirred much within him; Thranduil did not want to sit and prepare for the storm, he wanted to intercept it.

 

His lips foreign to her touch, groping upon the nape of her neck as she tried to focus upon the task at hand. His wound needed treatment, yet Thranduil had refused it. Her attention was not his, glazed stare still dewed from a recent bout; her time by herself left her locked within her madness, to watch her fade in her heartache, began to lay waste at his own psyche. 

 

“You shouldn’t-” she protested quietly, moving from his grasp. He held on until she refused him, features twisting in protest. “Thranduil,” her hands caught his, still nagging at her flesh. Fiery hues locked with his, emotion flooding throughout, yet blanked under the pressure of the situation. Her heart pained, heavy within her chest, and there had been no signs of the water’s surface breaking. Still, his hand would move to her face, forcing it to look upon his. 

 

“I know I should not,” he spoke, brows furrowing, “I cannot stand to see such pain bring you down, crumbling upon the floor… I have seen the ravens,” he whispered to her, pulling her closer to him, whether she had not wished it or not. He witnessed her breaking, even when she felt as if she were alone as he slumbered. He was no fool, even as she forced the tea upon him, he still had witnessed. “I am here to ease this burden, please, do not shun me.” 

 

“Please,” she begged, trying to slip from him once more. He held strong, held fast, with proper care and meaning. Frustration had risen, finally exploding like the wild lightning, finally crashing upon the shores. From his breast she tore herself, rag colliding against the ground. “Enough! I do not want this,” she bellowed, teeth mashing against her lip. “I do not want to feel, please…” 

 

“And if you do not feel, then what?” he whispered, opposite of her tone. “Would you shelter yourself, hauled within a hole until you began to fade? Is that the fate you want? She lives…”

 

“He lives,” she returned, eyes swelling in another wave, “holding strong within his keep… holding the one thing that has kept my heart beating. Just one day,” she looked upon the ceiling, avoiding his stare, “for that to be mine again. Robbed upon a whim to further drive me closer to the edge… My heart is no longer mine.” She wiped the tears that rolled from her face, avoiding him altogether. The rag thrown upon the ground, returned to the basin in which it sat, before her leave had been made.

 

_ The winds of Lothlorien speak of a feat only few have been able to achieve, yet my heart pains, still. As the years tore on, my heart continued to fray under the weight of your death, seeping through my veins until rendered helpless. Yet, it is now that you live and still, the pain cannot be undone.  _

 

_ My heart has only been able to beat for the hope of my daughter’s eyes to look upon my own, for her arms to wrap around me once again. Years robbed under false claims upon my deeds. Your calling for me is not what wounds me, as I have risen upon that waves of that venture between us. What wounds me is you are keen to keep her from me, just as Galadriel has. I only ask to look upon her face and have her returned to my care.  _

 

Her words heavy upon her mind; the wine did not completely numb her senses, but it has begun to do the job. Her room her prison and sanctity all in one, yet it was cold and empty as the day she left it to be within his chambers. It was the only within here, she was able to mourn properly. Her heart ached, a pain far worse than the day she had lost her beloved, far worse than the initial time she had been torn from her child’s arms… It was the pain of knowing she was a league away and she would be barred from the entrance. 

 

The goblet rested upon the desk, fingers rolling over the broken seal, and viewing the response she had read over and over again. How she craved for the wine to just take her whole, brandishing off another glass, and setting the goblet down to refill. Each time her eyes passed upon the words, her body ached.

 

_ Deeds within war have brandished you a threat. It is no longer within my grasp to allow such pleasantries, but I will protect what is mine. A love that has dwindled, yet never forgotten, forged within the union of our daughter. Each and every day I am reminded of that beauty.  _

 

_ She will remain within my halls. I will not bar you from her, but my halls are no longer yours to walk freely. She will not be yours, not after all that has transpired.  _

 

His name written elegantly, unable to be forged. Heat stinging her vision, droplets falling upon the response. Within her state, all else failed; nothing heard, nothing smelled, nothing seen. And it was his silent entrance that gave him the advantage, slipping his fingers around her waist, feeling her body grow rigid within his grasp. Her hair moved, his lips pressing against the back of her ear. 

 

“I do not want to feel,” she whispered, leaning back into his touch. “I cannot have her… he will not give her to me.” 

 

“Words were spoken to me upon the death of a lover,” he recoiled, his arm supporting around her middle, “What you feel is real and it cannot be undone. You must take her survival above all and you,” her hip turned, forcing her to stare upon his face. “You will see her one day, I promise you this. In this sorrow, you will fade… I have felt the whirlwind that is heartache, it has drug me into the pits of hell. I have went to war for jewels meant to grace her neck, and it was until your light, I began to thrive. The light has gone from your eyes,” his head lowered, working through the pain he felt. “Do not stray…” he begged, his lips upon hers.  

 

She wanted to protest, to push the king away from her; he had come all this way upon a whim of her well being, allowing her the time she needed to suffer by herself. His lips played upon her’s, longingly, pulling her closer within him. Morivanië did not fight, not this time, surrendering to his mercy; as much as she did not want to allow anymore feelings to flood through her, his admiration found it’s way within her. There was a hole in her soul, tearing her apart until she was nothing. Her hands shook, resting upon his face as she fought back the heat within her eyes and the thoughts within her head. 

 

“Amin naa fallien e' mela yassen lle,” soft whispers through kiss bruised lips, paled hues half lidded to look within her own. Morivanië sat upon his words as she question, though a light had slowly began to return. He had taken a leap, he knew this, but it was what was strong within his heart and needed to be said; if she had taken it another way, he too, would fall into this madness. Thranduil could not find a better moment than this, to remind the woman of others whom cared. It was her love that brought him from his prison and it was hopefully his that would pull her from the edge. 

 

“Mankoi?” she responded, brows arching in response. 

 

“Do I need to explain my reasoning?” he returned, removing strands that clung desperately to the stained cheeks. “I cannot deny how I feel… I knew the moment I placed you upon that bed, and soon, my bed will be barren. I cannot go on throughout my life without this opportunity. I am not asking you to stay…” his lips kissing her jaw, “Amin naa askien lle a' be amin.”

 

Morivanië’s breath hitched, fingers rolling from his face, and wrapping around his neck; her head buried into the swoop of his shoulder, pressing against the mangled, scar mess of his flesh. The only response Thranduil had was to cradle her, pressing her lower end up upon the desk, and rest within her middle as he embraced her. “Amin caela  been lle…” her tone muffled, speaking into his skin. His hands found her chin, removing her entirety from him, to give him the satisfaction of looking within her stare. “Amin caela  been lle…” she repeated, her expression still shaking with exhaustion and the lingering sorrow still gripping upon her features. 

 

The coarseness of his hand upon her thigh, pushing the silken robe further upon her hip, he leaned into her again, catching her kiss; she returned with a certain softness, one filled with tender emotions of her recent admittance. He held a sweet escape from the poisonous words upon the parchment and the world around her. She didn’t saved, she didn’t want to be sober either; he offered this escape as she breathed him in again, deepening the kiss as he towered over her. Deft hands worked with ease, exposing every part of her below the heavy material, prying it off her body, and covering the gnarled words that wounded her so. 

 

She knew he was no good for her, but desire never left her, and she wouldn’t even fight this. His actions moved to make her feel, remind her of the liberation he was offering. He had drenched her with words of love and affections, his heart craving hers even when it wanted to crumble. Thranduil had carefully begun to pick the pieces up, placing them back together before she even knew what he was trying to accomplish. He heard her hitch, gasping within his mouth as he tended to her, fingers moving with skill to draw her away from her mind. The movements of her chest, expanding and fall, was a small note he relished in. The notions of passion brought him closer, bracing around his neck while the other wandered upon his collarbone; the heat flushed her face, her own song unable to be silenced. 

 

Maybe there had been a small hymn of disappointment as he withdrew from her, but his intentions clear as the robe upon his shoulders shed, and pulling the loose fabric over his head. “Your wounds,” she reminded him, ecstasy still dripping from her lips.

 

“I will endure,” lips silencing her, moving to her neck. Fingertips were able to roam over the expanse of his shoulders, playing along every swirl of chaos from the dragon fire. She took note of his struggle, leaning heavily upon his good leg, taking pressure off of the recovering ankle. Despite his injuries, he only sought to ease her, bring her comfort as she did for him. There was no time to prepare or combat him off; he slipped within her as he did many nights, but the escape that came from her lungs, it had been a whole different experience.

 

The feelings aired within this room all vast and far off from one another, but it came down to the two monarchs and a devotion that had been new. Ardor of a new flame ignited, she felt different than she had before. The roll of her hips, the methodical way she moved into him as he continued to strike a nerve; there was passion draining from her lips and being passed onto him. Thranduil’s hand settled upon the desk, her spine moving with him. There was a moment of rage within him, catching a glimpse of the letter that peeked out from behind her robe; a swipe eradicated them of that burden, sending it upon the ground with the filled goblet of wine toppling upon it. Morivanië had given herself to another, promised a love of a lifetime, yet shamed for only being herself and avenging that love; Thranduil wanted to strip every last part of Finrod from her soul, mend it, and see that it would never reopen. 

 

Each stride brought a new sound; she finally settled upon the hardwood, spine arching into his hip as her held her legs apart. He kissed her breastbone, nipping upon her collar; he silenced his sounds by taking her mouth into his once more, tongue rolling to combat with the beautiful foe below him. She moaned as he settled closer against her sex, resting to just enjoy the sweet kisses upon his face and neck. His thumb moved away whatever flutter of tears came from the corner of her eyes, silent as they were, but held a stronger meaning. His hands ran along her hair, looking down at the flushed woman, giving herself to him. All that could be done was to kiss her eyes, kiss away the sorrow, until she was undoubtedly his, without any question. His middle stung, his leg on fire, but they were petty affairs he didn’t wish to acknowledge. Within his grip he had something far more beautiful than the jewels within the mountain; she was a wild gem, pulled from the sands. 

 

“ Le melin,” she spoke in between peppered kisses, revered notes hitting her vocals. His heart pined, falling to meld with hers, as it poured out the words he never knew he would hear again. Thranduil would not smile, there would be no expression upon his face other than a bittersweet yearning as he nearly broke at the seams. 

 

He responded slowly, repeating the words she uttered to him, pulling her toward him within his strife. It was fiery, this passion, as he tore into her as she him. He brought her ease, a newly risen emotion to mask the rest. With her within his arms, below his might, he felt so small in comparison. She sang within him, under him in this duet the pair continued. Her legs within his arms until he had found himself at a close; she trembled just as he, his weight resting over her, unable to cease groping her flesh with his lips. 

 

“Le melin,” he whispered, eyes licking upon glowing skin, adorn with the small affirmation of their union. It was upon that desk she swarmed him, her arms bringing the king’s crown into her chest. She kissed the top of his crown, his skin dewed, sticking to her own. Her crown laid back, eyes finally closing under the weight of it all; he had been broken, just as she, yet she was his focus.  Morivanië held Thranduil against her, fingers rolling through white blonde strands.

 

“I will be yours… until time ceases and we are no more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amin naa fallien e' mela yassen lle - I am falling in love with you  
> Mankoi - Why  
> Amin caela been lle - I am yours  
> Le melin - I love you


End file.
